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THE 


LIBRARY 


lJERATUKE 


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TRATED 


THE  LIBRARY 


CHOICE  LITERATURE 


Bl'i 

:s  '?  K 


THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


CHOICE  LITERATURE 


PROSE    AND     POETRY 


SELECTED  FROM  THE  MOST  ADMIRED  AUTHORS 


EDITED,  WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTES.  BY 

AINSWORTH   R.   SPOFFORD,   Librarian  of  Congress,  and 
CHARLES  GIBBON,  Author  of  "Robin  Gray,"  Etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  SIXTY-SIX  ENGRAVINGS  ON  STEEL 


IN  EIGHT  VOLUMES 
VOL.   I. 


PHILADELPHIA 

GEBBIE   &  CO.,   PUBLISHERS 

1882 


COPYRIGHTED  1881,  BY  GEBBIE  &  GO. 


5015654 

\M 


PREFACE. 


IN  launching  another  argosy,  with  rich  and  varied  freight,  upon  the  sea  of  popu- 
lar favor,  it  has  been  the  aim  of  the  Editors  and  Publishers  of  this  Library 

of  Choice  Literature  to  provide  for  the  tastes  of  the  widest  circle  of  intelligent 
readers. 

The  most  largely  circulated  anthologies  are  made  up  of  poetical  selections 
mainly ;  in  this,  poetry  holds  a  subordinate  place  to  prose.  While  a  just  proportion 
of  space  has  been  given  to  writers  on  graver  themes,  the  body  of  the  work  is  made 
up  of  Masterpieces,  chosen  from  the  most  fresh,  vigorous  and  entertaining  produc- 
tions of  the  most  noted  authors,  living  and  dead,  of  Europe  and  America. 

It  is  believed  that  the  people  are  ready  to  welcome  an  enterprise  which  will 
give  them  in  the  compact  form  of  Eight  Volumes  of  letter  press,  (or  it  may  be 
bound  in  four)  elegantly  illustrated,  A  LIBRARY  OF  LITERATURE,  so  comprehen- 
sive as  to  include  choice  specimens  from  nearly  every  writer  of  established  fame, 
representing  more  than  six  hundred  authors,  in  nearly  two  thousand  selections. 
The  gems  of  thought  and  expression,  the  exquisite  measures  of  song,  the  delicate 
play  of  fancy,  the  lofty  appeals  of  patriotism,  the  choicest  bits  of  description,  the 
delicious  sallies  of  wit  and  humor,  the  kindling  strains  of  eloquence — all  have 
their  place  in  these  pages.  From  the  best  works  of  the  best  writers,  from  novel- 
ists and  poets,  from  eloquent  orators  and  judicious  publicists,  from  philosophers 
and  historians,  from  travellers  and  voyagers,  from  biographers  and  essayists,  not 
forgetting  the  reviewers  and  pamphleteers, — we  have  gleaned  the  Library  here 
presented  to  the  reader. 

It  is  hoped  that  it  may  be  found  worthy  of  a  welcome  as  extensive  as  its 
scope. 


TI  PREFACE. 

It  has  been  the  ambition  of  the  publishers  to  produce  THE  LIBRARY  in  a 
style  worthy  of  its  contents,  and  it  is  commended  to  the  lovers  of  all  good  things — 
in  the  study,  the  workshop,  or  at  the  family  fireside,  in  the  confident  belief  that 
its  contents,  equally  instructive  and  entertaining,  represent  a  substantial  share  of 
the  sweetness  as  well  as  the  strength  of  the  world's  literature. 

The  special  thanks  of  the  publishers  and  editors  are  due.  and  are  hereby 
cheerfully  tendered  to  all  American  authors  and  publishers  of  copyright  works, 
who  have  kindly  placed  at  our  disposal  the  many  valuable  selections  from  their 
respective  publications  herein  kid  before  the  reader. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


PAGE. 

The  World  Behind  the  Scenes William  Makepeace  Thackeray  .  1 

Abraham  Lincoln -    ....  Shirley  Brooks,  London  "Punch."  6 

Napoleon  Le  Petit  •    •    • Victor  Hugo 6 

The  Song  of  the  Dying Captain  Dowling 10 

Rab  and  his  Friends John  Brown,  M.D 11 

The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse Wm.  M.  Thackeray 17 

Oration  on  the  Dedication  of  a  Statue  to  Burns G.  W.  Curtis 18 

The  Prize  Ode  on  the  Centenary  of  Burns Isa  Craig  Knox 23 

Speech  on  Duluth Hon.  J.  Proctor  Knott  ....  24 

America Samuel  F.  Smith 27 

The  Funeral  Oration  of  Pericles Thucydides 27 

The  Pope  and  the  Beggar Bulwer  Lytton 31 

London  Society  a  Hundred  Years  Ago    .....*...  George  0.  Trevelyan 31 

Thanatopsis William  Cullen  Bryant  ....  36 

Perling  Joan John  Gibson  Lockhart  ....  37 

Cleopatra Wm.  W.  Story 38 

A  Battle  Picture Anonymous 40 

The  Journey  of  a  Day Samuel  Johnson 41 

Andrea  Del  Sarto Robert  Browning 42 

The  Storm  and  Shipwreck Charles  Dickens 45 

From  "in  Memoriam" Alfred  Tennyson 49 

A  Week  at  Batavia The  Marquis  De  Beauvoir ...  49 

The  Wedding  of  Shon  Maclean Robert  Buchannan 54 

A  Discourse  of  Trees Henry  Ward  Beecher 56 

The  Suicide  Banker A.  M.  Sullivan,  M.  P.   .    .    .    .  59 

Carcassonne LippincotC s  Magazine 62 

A  Night  of  Terror Paul  Louis  Courier 62 

Parallel  between  Wm.  Penn  and  John  Locke George  Bancroft 63 

The  Youth  of  AVashington George  Bancroft 64 

Childe  Harold Lord  Byron 65 

Mark  Twain  on  the  Weather Samuel  L.  Clemens 66 

The  Vision  of  Mirza  Exhibiting  a  Picture  of  Human  Life  Joseph  Addison 67 

Will  Waterproof's  Lyrical  Monologue Alfred  Tennyson 69 

Positivism  on  an  Island W.  H.  Malloch 71 

The  Wants  of  Man John  Quincy  Adams 87 

The  Babies  .                                                  Samuel  L.  Clemens 89 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGK, 

Paraphrase  from  Seneca Sir  Matthew  Hale 9U 

Budge's  Version  of  the  Flood John  Habberton 

.  John  G.  Holland 92 

The  Laocoou .  .    .    .   • 

The  Treachery  of  Mettius  and  its  Punishment      ....  Lwy 

The  Closing  Scene Thoma*  Buchanan  Read    ...  94 

The  Last  Days  of  the  Emperor  Otho Tacitus 

The  Little  Man  all  in  Grey J.  P.  de  B&rmger 

A  Picture  of  Wild  Nature  on  the  Mississippi F.  A.  de  Chateaubriand .   ...  97 

Wimfreda Anonymous 

On  Old  Age acero 98 

The  Bill  of  Mortality Wm-  Cowper 100 

The  Lost  and  Delicious  Leisure  of  the  Olden  Time  .    .    .  George  Eliot       1 

The  Dream Sir  Wm.  Davcnant 101 

Life  in  as  you  Like Douglas  J err  old 102 

A  Bridal  Song Beaumont  and  Fletcher  ....  105 

Disproportion  of  Man Blaise  Pascal 105 

The  Falcon Boccaccio 107 

The  King  of  Thule Goethe 109 

Three  Sonnets William  Drummond     ....  109 

The  Story  of  Crazy  Martha Jacques  Jasmin 110 

The  Complaint Thomas  Chatterton 114 

The  Imprisoned  Huntsman Sir  Walter  Scott 115 

England  and  France Theodore  Hook 115 

A  Garden  Reverie Philip  Bourke  Marston     .     .     .  120 

Old  Familiar  Faces Cliarles  Lamb 121 

Kabiik,  an  Eastern  Tale A.  Crowquill 121 

Song.— From  the  Spanish J.  G.  Lockhart 123 

The  Lord's  Marie Allan  Cunningham 124 

The  Literary  Life Matthew  Browne 124 

Louglirig  Tarn Professor  Wilson 129 

Buy  a  Broom? Thomas  Aird 130 

A  Retrospective  Review Thomas  Hood 154 

To  Blossoms Robert  Herrick 155 

The  Enchanter  Faustus  and  Queen  Elizabeth Blackwood's  Mag 156 

To  a  Highland  Girl Wordsworth 159 

The  Poet's  Dream Lord  Lytton 160 

On  the  Moral  Qualities  of  Milton Dr.  Channing 161 

Song  from  Faust Goethe 164 

On  Impudence  and  Modesty David  Hume 165 

Stanzas Mrs.  Anne  Radclijfe     ....  165 

Human  Life Samuel  Rogers 166 

The  Gray  Hair Alaric  A.  Watts 166 

Out  with  the  Herring-Fishers Hugh  Miller 167 

Haidee Lor<i  Byron 170 

The  Dean  of  Santiago From  the  Spanish 174 

The  Two  Fountains Thomas  Moore 176 

Master  and  Man Thomas  Crofton  Croker     ...  177 

The  Knitter Sir  John  Bowring 179 

To  my  Honoured  Kinsman Dry  den  180 

The  Philosophy  of  Sorrow D'Arcy  Wentworth  Thomson.     .  182 

The  Comforter Thomas  Moan 184 

Peggy  Nowlan John  Bar,  im    .  185 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

The  Banks  of  Clyde Andrew  Park 192 

The  Spate,  a  Tale  of  the  Clyde       Thomas  Atkinson 192 

Evening Alaric  A    Watts 197 

To  J***  H***,  Four  Years  01.1 Leirth  Hunt 198 

A  Dirge Rev.  Georne  Crnly 199 

A  Family  Scene Susan  Edinondstone  Ferrier  .     .  199 

Baby  May W.  C.  Bennett 202 

Baby's  Shoes W.  C.  Bennett 203 

The  Brigand  of  the  Loire Alexander  Sutherland  ....  203 

Fate Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  ....  211 

The  Romany  Girl Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 211 

To  a  Sky-lark James  Hogg 212 

Scene  from  "  The  Tryal,"  a  Comedy Joanna  Baillie 212 

Sonnet Henry  Kirke  White 214 

To  the  Moon John  Keats 215 

Servian  Lyric Sir  John  Bowring 215 

Journal  of  a  Lady  of  Fashion Countess  of  Blessington      ...  216 

Hymn— Before  Sunrise  in  the  Valley  of  Chamouni   .     .     .     Coleridge 219 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Kuife-grinder    ....  Right  Hon.  George  Canning  .     .  220 

Vulgarity  and  Affectation William  Hazlitt 220 

The  Jester  Condemned  to  Death Horace  Smith 224 

The  Summer  Morning John  Clare 224 

The  Horn -book K.  a.  Pratzel 225 

Across  the  Sands  of  Dee Charles  Kingslty 233 

Laura's  Bower Leigh  Hunt 234 

Extracts  from  the  Correspondence  of  Cowper William  Cowper 234 

Cupid  Taught  by  the  Graces 240 

A  Choice George  Godfrey  Cunningham      .  240 

The  Adopted  Child Mrs.  Hemans 240 

My  Namesake Theodore  Martin 241 

Wiustanley,  a  Ballad .     Jean  Ingelow 251 

The  Counterparts 254 

Human  Life Bernard  Barton 258 

Polish  Superstitions Mrs.  Bailie 258 

The  Sick  Child John  Struthers 259 

Selling  Flowers Mrs.  Henry  Wood 2GO 

Sonnet,  To  a  Ladye Win.  Dunbar       267 

Sonnet,  the  Fear  of  Death Sir  Philip  Sydney 2o'7 

Sonnet,  Degeneracy  of  the  World Drtimmoiid  of  Hawthornden  .     .  267 

Sonnet,  To  Mr.  Lawrence John  Milton 207 

Sonnet,  Worldliness Wordsworth 267 

Sonnet,  On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket John  Keats 2C8 

Fact  and  Fiction Thomas  Doubleday 268 

Ballad  of  Cresentius Miss  Landon 272 

The  Graves  of  a  Household Mrs.  Hemans 273 

The  Screen,  or  "Not  at  Home" Mrs.  Opie 273 

The  Seven  Sisters Wordsworth 277 

The  Mother's  Heart Mrs.  Norton 278 

My  Babes  in  the  Wood Mrs.  Piatt 278 

Martha  the  Gipsy Theodore  Hook 279 

Searching  after  God Thomas  Heynood 287 

Masaniello,  the  Fisherman  of  Naples       288 

On  Revisiting  the  Scenes  of  my  Infancy Dr  John  Leyden 290 


x  CONTENTS. 

FAQS 

Mrs.  Mellor's  Diamonds <?•  A-  Sala 291 

Home  at  Last Tom  ffood>  ijie  Vounffer     ...  298 

Stanzas  .              Caroline  Bowles  Southey    .    .    .  298 

The  Rustic  Wreath Miss  Hit  ford 299 

Wyoming Thomas  Campbell 302 

Death  of  Gertru.le Thomas  Campbell 302 

School  Friendship James  Smith 303 

The  Ocean  Grave Mrs-  John  Hunter 306 

The  Fall  of  the  Leaf Thomas  Hood 307 

Fidelity From  the  Spanish 309 

Verses    .                                     •&  ndrew  Marvel 309 

Madame  Simple's  Investment 310 

Song— The  Old  Man Henry  Neele 316 

The  Red-nosed  Lieutenant Dr.  William  Maginn    ....  316 

The  Wall-flower Rev.  John  Langhorne   ....  319 

At  the  Shrine B.  Orme 320 

Peace  and  War Shelley 323 

Trifles Hannah  More 323 

Rouge-et-Noir Horace  Smith 324 

On  the  Instability  of  Youth Lord  Vaux 329 

London Lord  Macaulay 330 

Laura  in  Heaven Petrarch 337 

An  English  Landscape George  Eliot  ..-•*••  337 

Juggling  Jerry George  Meredith 338 

The  Dwarf  and  the  Invisible  Cap .     G.  G.  Cunningham 340 

The  Education  of  Bacchus Rev.  George  Croly 341 

May  Morning  at  Ravenna Leigh  Hunt    .......  341 

Medicine  and  Morals Isaac  V  Israeli 342 

From  the  Arabic 344 

The  Scottish  Sacramental  Sabbath James  Hislop 344 

Little  Dominick Miss  Edgeworth 346 

Lament  for  her  Husband Mrs.  Opie 350 

The  Fags'  Revolt Thomas  Hughes 351 

The  Vicar Winthrop  M.  Praed     ....  357 

To  a  Beloved  Daughter Henry  Alford 358 

My  Plea Alice  Gary 358 

The  White  Boat, Emile  Sourestre 359 

Soug—"  Gather  ye  Rose-buds '' Robert  Herrick 370 

The  Sleep Mrs.  E.  B.  Browning  ....  370 

Alfred  the  Truth-teller C/Mrlotte  Mary  Yonge       ...  371 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor Samuel  Ferguson 375 

English  Literature Francis  Jeffrey .377 

The  Gondola  Glides y.  K   Uen.ey 3^ 

Right  at  Last Mrg  ffaskeU 381 

The  Exchange S.T.Coleridge 386 

iood  at  Sherwood  Forest Drayton  W 

The  Story  of  Marullo |  Shirley  Brooks                              '.  388 

"g  of  the  Virgins  of  Israel Wm_  'Sotheby  _  392 

V  Good  Word  for  Winter J.  R.  Loioell    .                              .  393 

Soldier's  Home Robert  Bloomfield 397 

The  Great  Storm  of  1703 Hone  3Q8 


LIST  OF  THE  ENGRAVINGS 

IN 

VOLUME   I. 


THREE  PORTRAITS,  (Bryant,  Thackeray,  Macaulay) Frontispiece. 

THE  FAIR  VENETIAN, Engraved  Title. 

RAB, page  16 

CLEOPATRA, "    48 

THE  POET'S  DREAM, "160 

THE  CLYDE,  from  Erskine  Ferry, "  192 

CUPID  TAUGHT  BY  THE  GRACES, "  240 

NAPLES,  from  the  West "288 

THE  SHBINE,— Roman  States, "320 


THE   LIBRARY 

OF 

CHOICE  LITERATURE. 


THE  WORLD  BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 

[WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY,  born  at  Calcutta, 
1811,  died  in  London,  Doc.  24,  186:!.  His  father  was  in 
the  East  India  civil  service,  to  which  may  be  due  many 
life-like  pictures  in  his  writings.  His  early  life  brought 
him  a  varied  experience,  first  of  fortune  and  then  of  po- 
verty. The  study  of  art  took  him  for  years  to  the  Con- 
tinent, and  at  the  age  of  thirty  he  took  up  the  profession 
of  authorship,  writing  copiously  for  Punch  and  Frcaer's 
Magazine.  His  first  notable  work  of  fiction,  Vanity  Fair, 
appeared  in  1840-7,  and  his  Lectures  on  English  Humor- 
ists and  on  the  Four  Georges,  wrought  out  with  rare  lite- 
rary skill,  were  delivered  to  admiring  audiences  in 
England  and  America  from  1851  to  1856.  The  Cornhill 
Magazine  began  in  18GO  under  Thackeray's  editorship, 
and  quickly  ran  to  the  unprecedented  circulation  of  over 
100,000  copies.  In  person  Thackeray  was  tall,  massive- 
brained,  and  commanding  with  genial  and  kindly  man- 
ners. His  place  in  the  literature  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury is  a  high  one,  and  the  title  unquestionably  belongs 
to  him  of  the  first  satirist  of  the  age.  Nowhere  are  to 
be  found  such  pictures  of  the  meanness,  selfishness,  and 
heartless  servility  of  society  to  rank  and  money,  com- 
bined with  skilful  and  masterly  portraitures  of  noble 
and  kindly  men,  end  devoted,  unselfish  women.  The 
style  of  Thackeray  is  his  own,  always  pure,  free  and 
flowing,  refined,  yet  forcible,  while  his  delicate  and  sub- 
tile humor,  frequently  sportive,  but  never  too  "broad,  en- 
livens all  his  books,  which  are  not  wanting  also  in  the 
deepest  pathos,  lofty  morality  and  sometimes  tragic 
power. 

The  best  novels  of  Thackeray  are  Vanity  Fair  (1847), 
The  History  of  Pendennis  (1850),  Henry  Esmond  (1852), 
The  Newcombs  (1855),  and  The  Virginia™  (1857).] 

SO  Pen  had  many  acquaintances,  and  be- 
ing of  a  jovial  and  easy  turn,  got  more 
daily :  but  no  friend  like  Warrington ;  and 
the  two  men  continued  to  live  almost  as 
much  in  common  as  the  Knights  of  the  Tem- 
ple, riding  upon  one  horse  (for  Pen's  was 
at  Warrington's  service),  and  having  their 
chambers  and  their  servitor  in  common. 

Mr.  Warrington  had  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Pen's  friends   of  Grosvenor  Place 
VOL.  I. 


during  their  last  unlucky  season  in  London, 
and  had  expressed  himself  no  better  satis- 
fied with  Sir  Francis  and  Lady  Clavering 
and  her  ladyship's  daughter  than  was  the 
public  in  general.  "  The  world  is  right," 
George  said,  "  about  those  people.  The 
young  men  laugh  and  talk  freely  before 
those  ladies,  and  about  them.  The  girl  sees 
people  whom  she  has  no  right  to  know,  and 
talks  to  men  with  whom  no  girl  should  have 
an  intimacy.  Did  you  see  those  two  re- 
probates leaning  over  Lady  Clavering's  car- 
riage in  the  Park  the  other  day,  and  leering 
under  Miss  Blanche's  bonnet?  No  good 
mother  would  let  her  daughter  know  those 
men,  or  admit  them  within  her  doors." 

"  The  Begum  is  the  most  innocent  and 
good-natured  soul  alive,"  interposed  Pen. 
"  She  never  heard  any  harm  of  Captain 
Blackball,  or  read  that  trial  in  which  Char- 
ley Lovelace  figures.  Do  you  suppose  that 
honest  ladies  read  and  remember  the  Chron- 
ique  Scandaleuse  as  well  as  you,  you  old 
grumbler?  " 

"  Would  you  like  Laura  Bell  to  know 
those  fellows  ?  "  Warrington  asked,  his  face 
turning  rather  red.  "  Would  you  let  any 
woman  you  loved  be  contaminated  by  their 
company  ?  I  have  no  doubt  that  poor  Be- 
gum is  ignorant  of  their  histories.  It  seems 
to  me  she  is  ignorant  of  a  great  number 
of  better  things.  It  seems  to  me  that  your 
honest  Begum  is  not  a  lady,  Pen.  It  is  not 
her  fault,  doubtless,  that  she  has  not  had 
the  education  or  learned  the  refinements  of 
a  lady." 

"  She  is  as  moral  as  Lady  Portsea,  who 
has  all  the  world  at  her  balls,  and  as  refined 
as  Mrs.  Bull,  who  breaks  the  king's  English, 
and  has  half  a  dozen  dukes  at  her  table," 
Pen  answered,  rather  sulkily.  "  Why  should 
you  and  I  be  more  squeamish  than  the  rest 
of  the  world  ?  Why  are  we  to  visit  the  sins 
of  her  fathers  on  this  harmless,  kind  crea- 


PENDENNIS. 


ture?  She  never  did  anything  but  kind- 
ness to  you  or  any  mortal  soul.  As  far  as 
she  knows,  she  does  her  best.  She  does  not 
set  up  to  be  more  than  she  is.  She  gives 
you  the  best  dinners  she  can  buy,  and  the 
best  company  she  can  get.  She  pays  the 
debts  of  that  scamp  of  a  husband  of  hers. 
She  spoils  her  boy  like  the  most  virtuous 
mother  in  England.  Her  opinion  about  lit- 
erary matters,  to  be  sure  is  not  much  ;  and 
I  dare  say  she  never  read  a  line  of  Words- 
worth, or  heard  of  Tennyson  in  her  life." 

"  No  more  has  Mrs.  Flanagan  the  laun- 
dress," growled  out  Pen's  Mentor;  "no 
more  has  Betty,  the  housemaid  ;  and  I  have 
no  word  of  blame  against  them.  But  a 
high-souled  man  doesn't  make  friends  of 
these.  A  gentleman  doesn't  choose  these 
for  his  companions,  or  bitterly  rues  it  after- 
wards if  he  do.  Are  you,  who  are  setting 
tip  to  be  a  man  of  the  world  and  a  philoso- 
pher, to  tell  me  that  the  aim  of  life  is  to 
gjttle  three  courses  and  dine  off  silver  ? 
o  you  dare  to  own  to  yourself  that  your 
ambition  in  life  is  good  claret,  and  that 
you'll  dine  with  any,  provided  you  get  a 
stalled  ox  to  feed  on  ?  You  call  me  a  Cy- 
nic— why,  what  a  monstrous  Cynicism  it  is, 
which  you  and  the  rest  of  you  men  of  the 
world  admit !  I'd  rather  live  upon  raw  tur- 
nips and  sleep  in  a  hollow  tree,  or  turn  back- 
woodsman or  savage,  than  degrade  myself  to 
this  civilization,  and  own  that  a  French  cook 
was  the  thing  in  life  best  worth  living  for." 

"  Because  you  like  raw  beef-steak  and  a 
pipe  afterwards,"  broke  out  Pen,  "  you  give 
yourself  airs  of  superiority  over  people  whose 
tastes  are  more  dainty,  and  are  not  ashamed 
of  the  world  they  live  in.  Who  goes  about 
professing  particular  admiration,  or  esteem 
or  friendship,  or  gratitude,  even  for  the  peo- 
ple one  meets  every  day  ?  If  A.  asks  me  to 
his  house,  and  gives  me  his  best,  I  take  his 
good  things  for  what  they  are  worth  and  no 
more.  I  do  not  profess  to  pay  him  back  in 
friendship,  but  in  the  convention's  money  of 
society.  When  we  part,  we  part  without  any 
grief.  When  we  meet,  we  are  tolerably  glad 
to  see  one  another.  If  I  were  only  to  live 
with  my  friends,  your  black  muzzle,  old 
George,  is  the  only  face  I  should  see." 

"  You  arc  your  uncle's  pupil,"  said  War- 
rington  rather  sadly ;  "  and  you  speak  like 
a  worldling." 

"  And  why  not?  "  asked  Pendennis  ;  "  why 
not  acknowledge  the  world  I  stand  upon, 
and  submit  to  the  conditions  of  the  society 
which  we  live  in  and  live  by  ?  I  am  older 


than  you,  George,  in  spite  of  your  grizzled 
whiskers,  and  have  seen  much  more  of  the 
world  than  you  have  in  your  garret  here, 
shut  up  with  your  books  and  your  reveries 
and  your  ideas  of  one-and-twenty.  1  say,  I 
take  the  world  as  it  is.  and  being  of  it  will 
not  be  ashamed  of  it.  If  the  time  is  out  of 
joint,  have  I  any  calling  or  strength  to  set 
it  right  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  think  you  have  much  of 
either,"  growled  Pen's  interlocutor. 

"  If  I  doubt  whether  I  am  better  than  my 
neighbor,"  Arthur  continued, — "  If  I  con- 
cede that  I  am  no  better, — I  also  doubt 
whether  he  is  better  than  I.  I  see  men  who 
begin  with  ideas  of  universal  reform,  and 
who,  before  their  beards  are  grown,  pro- 
pound their  loud  plans  for  the  regeneration 
of  mankind,  give  up  their  schemes  after  a 
few  years  of  bootless  talking  and  vainglorious 
attempts  to  lead  their  fellows  ;  and  after  they 
have  found  that  men  will  no  longer  hear 
them,  as  indeed  they  never  were  in  the  least 
worthy  to  be  heard,  sink  quietly  into  the 
rank  and  file, — acknowledging  their  aims  im- 
practicable, or  thankful  that  they  were  never 
put  into  practice.  The  fiercest  reformers 
grow  calm,  and  are  fain  to  put  up  with 
things  as  they  are  :  the  loudest  Radical  ora- 
tors become  dumb,  quiescent  placemen  :  the 
most  fervent  Liberals  when  out  of  power,  be- 
come humdrum  Conservatives,  or  downright 
tyrants  or  despots  in  office.  Look  at  Thiers, 
look  at  Guizot,  in  opposition  and  in  place ! 
Look  at  the  Whigs  appealing  to  the  country, 
and  the  Whigs  in  power  1  Would  you  say 
that  the  conduct  of  these  men  is  an  act  of 
treason,  as  the  Radicals  bawl, — who  would 
give  way  in  their  turn,  were  their  turn  ever 
to  come  ?  No,  only  that  they  submit  to  cir- 
cumstances which  are  stronger  than  they, — 
march  as  the  world  marches  towards  reform, 
but  at  the  world's  pace  (and  the  movements 
of  the  vast  body  of  mankind  must  needs  be 
slow), — forego  this  scheme  as  impracticable, 
on  account  of  opposition, — that  as  immature, 
because  against  the  sense  of  the  majority, — 
are  forced  to  calculate  drawbacks  and  diffi- 
culties, as  well  as  to  think  of  reforms  and 
advances, — and  compelled  finally  to  submit, 
and  to  wait  and  to  compromise." 

"  The  Right  honorable  Arthur  Pendennig 
could  not  speak  better,  or  be  more  satisfied 
with  himself,  if  he  was  first  Lord  of  the 
Treasury  and  chancellor  of  the  Exchequer," 
Warrington  said. 

"  Self-satisfied  ?  Why  self-satisfied  ?  " 
continued  Pen.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  my 


THE  WORLD  BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 


skepticism  is  more  respectful  and  more  mo- 
dest than  the  revolutionary  ardor  of  other 
folks.  Many  a  patriot  of  eighteen,  many  a 
Spouting-Club  orator,  would  turn  the  Bishops 
out  of  the  House  of  Lords  to-morrow,  and 
throw  the  Lords  out  after  the  Bishops,  and 
throw  the  throne  into  the  Thames  after  the 
Peers  and  the  Bench.  Is  that  man  more 
modest  than  I,  who  take  these  institutions  as 
I  find  them,  and  wait  for  time  and  truth  to 
develop,  or  fortify,  or  (if  you  like)  destroy 
them  ?  A  college  tutor,  or  a  nobleman's 
toady,  who  appears  one  fine  day  as  my  right 
reverend  lord,  in  a  silk  apron  and  a  shovel- 
hat,  and  assumes  a  benedictory  air  over  me, 
is  still  the  same  man  we  remember  at  Ox- 
bridge, when  he  was  truckling  to  the  tufts, 
and  bullying  the  poor  undergraduates  in 
the  lecture-room.  An  hereditary  legislator, 
who  passes  his  time  with  jockeys  and  black- 
legs and  ballet-girls,  and  who  is  called  to 
rule  over  me  and  his  other  betters  because 
his  grandfather  made  a  lucky  speculation 
in  the  funds,  or  found  a  coal  or  tin  mine  on 
his  property,  or  because  his  stupid  ancestor 
happened  to  be  in  command  often  thousand 
men  as  brave  as  himself,  who  overcame 
twelve  thousand  Frenchmen,  or  fifty  thou- 
sand Indians — such  a  man,  I  say,  inspires 
me  with  no  more  respect  than  the  bitterest 
democrat  can  feel  towards  him.  But,  such 
as  he  is,  he  is  a  part  of  the  old  society  to 
which  we  belong  :  and  I  submit  to  his  lord- 
ship with  acquiescence  ;  and  he  takes  his 
place  above  the  best  of  us  at  all  dinner- 
parties, and  there  bides  his  time.  I  don't 
want  to  chop  his  head  off  with  a  guillotine, 
or  to  fling  mud  at  him  in  the  street.  When 
they  call  such  a  man  a  disgrace  to  his 
order  ;  and  such  another,  who  is  good  and 
gentle,  refined  and  generous,  who  employs 
his  great  means  in  promoting  every  kind- 
ness and  charity,  and  art  and  grace  of  life, 
in  the  kindest  and  most  gracious  manner, 
an  ornament  to  his  rank — the  question  as  to 
the  use  and  propriety  of  the  order  is  not  in 
the  least  affected  one  way  or  other.  There 
it  is,  extant  among  us,  a  part  of  our  habits, 
the  creed  of  many  of  us,  the  growth  of  cen- 
turies, the  symbol  of  a  most  complicated 
tradition — there  stand  my  lord  the  bishop 
and  my  lord  the  hereditary  legislator — what 
the  French  call  transactions  both  of  them 
— representing  in  their  present  shape  mail- 
clad  barons  and  double-s worded  chiefs  (from 
whom  their  lordships  the  hereditaries,  for 
the  most  part,  dont  descend),  and  priests, 
professing  to  hold  an  absolute  truth  and  a 


divinely  inherited  power,  the  which  truth 
absolute  our  ancestors  burned  at.  the  stake, 
and  denied  there  ;  the  which  divine  trans- 
missible power  still  exists  in  print — to 
be  believed,  or  not,  pretty  much  at  choice  ; 
and  of  these,  I  say,  I  acquiesce  that  they 
exist,  and  no  more.  If  you  say  that  these 
schemes,  devised  before  printing  was  known, 
or  steam  was  born  ;  when  thought  was  an 
infant,  scared  and  whipped  ;  and  truth  un- 
der its  guardians  was  gagged  and  swathed, 
and  blindfolded,  and  not  allowed  to  lift  its 
voice,  or  to  look  out,  or  to  walk  under  the 
sun  ;  before  men  were  permitted  to  meet,  or 
to  trade,  or  to  speak  with  each  other — If  any 
one  says  (as  some  faithful  souls  do)  that 
these  schemes  are  forever,  and  having  been 
changed  and  modified  constantly  are  to  be 
subject  to  no  further  development  or  decay, 
I  laugh,  and  let  the  man  speak.  But  I 
would  have  toleration  for  these,  as  I 
would  ask  it  for  my  own  opinions  ;  and  if 
they  are  to  die,  I  would  rather  they  had  a 
decent  and  natural  than  an  abrupt  and 
violent  death." 

''  You  would  have  sacrificed  to  Jove," 
Warrington  said,  "  had  you  lived  in  the  time 
of  the  Christian  persecutions." 

"  Perhaps  I  would,"  said  Pen,  with  some 
sadness.  "  Perhaps  I  am  a  coward, — per- 
haps my  faith  is  unsteady  ;  but  this  is  my 
own  reserve.  What  I  argue  here  is,  that  I 
will  not  persecute.  Make  a  faith  or  a  dogma 
absolute,  and  persecution  becomes  a  logical 
consequence  ;  and  Dominic  burns  a  Jew,  or 
Calvin  an  Arian,  or  Nero  a  Christian,  or 
Elizabeth  or  Mary  a  Papist  or  Protestant ; 
or  their  father  both  or  either,  according  to 
his  humor  ;  and  acting  without  any  pangs 
of  remorse, — but  on  the  contrary,  with  strict 
notions  of  duty  fulfilled.  Make  dogma  ab- 
solute, and  to  inflict  or  to  suffer  death  be- 
comes easy  and  necessary  ;  and  Mohammed's 
soldiers  shouting  '  Paradise  !  Paradise ! '  and 
dying  on  the  Christian  spears,  are  not  more  or 
less  praiseworthy  than  the  same  men  slaugh- 
tering a  townful  of  Jews,  or  cutting  off  the 
heads  of  all  prisoners  who  would  not  ac- 
knowledge that  there  was  but  one  prophet 
of  God." 

"  A  little  while  since,  young  one,"  War- 
rington said,  who  had  been  listening  to  his 
friend's  confessions  neither  without  sympathy 
nor  scorn,  for  his  mood  led  him  to  indulge  in 
both,  "  you  asked  me  why  I  remained  out  of 
the  strife  of  the  world,  and  looked  on  at  the 
great  labor  of  my  neighbor  without  taking 
any  part  in  the  struggle  ?  Why,  what  a 


PENDENNIS. 


mere  dilettante  you  own  yourself  to  be,  in 
this  confession  of  general  skepticism,  and 
what  a  listless  spectator  yourself?  You  are 
six-and-twenty  years  old,  and  as  blast  as  a 
rake  of  sixty."  "You  neither  hope  much,  nor 
care  much,  nor  believe  much. 

"  Were  the  world  composed  of  Saint  Ber- 
nards or  Saint  Dominies,  it  would  be  equally 
odious,"  said  Pen,  "and  at  the  end  of  a  few 
score  years  would  cease  to  exist  altogether. 
Would  you  have  every  man  with  his  head 
shaved,  and  every  woman  in  a  cloister, — 
carrying  out  to  tlie  full  the  ascetic  principle  ? 
Would  you  have  conventicle  hymns  twanging 
from  every  lane  in  every  city  in  the  world  ? 
Would  you  have  all  the"  birds  of  the  forest 
sing  one  note  and  fly  with  one  feather? 
You  call  me  a  skeptic  because  I  acknowledge 
what  is ;  and  in  acknowledging  that,  be  it 
linnet  or  lark,  or  priest  or  parson  ;  be  it,  I 
mean,  any  single  one  of  the  infinite  varieties 
of  the  creatures  of  God  (whose  very  name  I 
would  be  understood  to  pronounce  with  rev- 
erence, and  never  to  approach  but  with  dis- 
tant awe),  I  say  that  the  study  and  ac- 
knowledgment of  that  variety  amongst  men 
especially  increases  our  respect  and  wonder 
for  the  Creator,  Commander,  and  Ordainer  of 
all  these  minds,  so  different  and  yet  so 
united, — meeting  in  a  common  adoration, 
and  offering  up  each  according  to  his  degree 
and  means  of  approaching  the  Divine  centre, 
his  acknowledgment  of  praise  and  worship, 
each  singing  (to  recur  to  the  bird  simile) 
his  natural  song." 

"  And  so,  Arthur,  the  hymn  of  a  saint,  or 
the  ode  of  a  poet,  or  the  chant  of  a  Newgate 
thief,  are  all  pretty  much  the  same  in  your 
philosophy,"  said  George. 

"  Even  that  sneer  could  be  answered  were 
it  to  the  point,"  Pendennis  replied  ;  "  but  it 
is  not ;  and  it  could  be  replied  to  you,  that 
even  to  the  wretched  outcry  of  the  thief  on 
the  tree,  the  wisest  and  the  best  of  all  teach- 
ers we  know  of,  the  untiring  Comforter  and 
Consoler,  promised  a  pitiful  hearing  and  a 
certain  hope.  Hymns  of  saints  !  Odes  oi 
poets  !  who  are  we,  to  measure  the  chances 
and  opportunities,  the  means  of  doing,  or 
e\vn  judging,  right  and  wrong,  awarded  to 
men  ;  and  to  establish  the  rule  for  meeting 
out  their  punishments  and  rewards  ?  We 
set  up  our  paltry  little  rods  to  measure 
Heaven  immeasurable,  as  if  in  comparison 
to  that,  Newton's  mind,  or  Pascal's  or 
Shakespeare's,  was  any  loftier  than  mine 
as  if  the  ray  which  travels  from  the  sur 
would  reach  me  sooner  than  the  man  who 


blacks  my  boots.  Measured  by  that  alti- 
tude, the  tallest  and  the  smallest  among  us 
are  so  alike  diminutive  and  pitifully  base, 
that  I  say  we  should  take  no  count  for  the 
calculation,  and  it  is  a  meanness  to  reckon 
the  difference." 

"  Your  figure  fails  there,  Arthur,"  said  the 
other  better  pleased  ;  "  if  even  by  common 
arithmetic  we  can  multiply  as  we  can  reduce 
almost  infinitely,  the  Great  Reckoner  must 
;ake  count  of  all ;  and  the  small  is  not  small, 
or  the  great  great,  to  His  infinity." 

"  I  don't  call  those  calculations  in  ques- 
___>n,"  Arthur  said  ;  "  I  only  say  that  yours 
are  incomplete  and  premature ;  false  in 
consequence,  and  by  every  operation,  multi- 
slying  into  wider  error.  I  do  not  condemn 
:he  men  who  killed  Socrates  and  damned 
Galileo.  I  say  that  they  damned  Galileo  and 
killed  Socrates." 


"  And  yet  but  a  moment  since  you  admit- 
ted the  propriety  of  acquiescence  in  the  pres- 
d,  I  suppose,  all  other  tyrannies  ?  " 

"  No  :  but  that  if  an  opponent  menaces  me, 
of  whom  and  without  cost  of  blood  and  vio- 
lence I  can  get  rid,  I  would  rather  wait  him 
out,  and  starve  him  out,  than  fight  him  out. 
Fabius  fought  Hannibal  skeptically.  Who 
was  his  Roman  coadjutor,  whom  we  read  of 
in  Plutarch  when  we  were  boys,  who  scoffed 
at  the  other's  procrastination  and  doubted 
his  courage,  and  engaged  the  enemy,  and  was 
beaten  for  his  pains  ?  " 

In  these  speculations  and  confessions  of 
Arthur,  the  reader  may  perhaps  see  allusions 
to  questions,  which,  no  doubt,  have  occupied 
and  discomposed  himself,  and  which  he  may 
have  answered  by  very  different  solutions  to 
those  come  to  by  our  friend.  We  are  not 
pledging  ourselves  for  the  correctness  of  his 
opinions,  which  readers  will  please  to  con- 
sider are  delivered  dramatically,  the  writer 
being  no  more  answerable  for  them  than  for 
the  sentiments  uttered  by  any  other  charac- 
ter of  our  story  :  our  endeavor  is  merely  to 
follow  out,  in  its  progress,  the  development 
of  the  mind  of  a  worldly  and  selfish,  but  not 
ungenerous  or  unkind  or  truth-avoiding  man. 
And  it  will  be  seen  that  the  lamentable  stage 
to  which  this  logic  at  present  has  brought 
him,  is  one  of  general  skepticism  and  sneer- 
ing acquiescence  in  the  world  as  it  is  ;  or  if 
you  like  so  to  call  it,  a  belief  qualified  with 
scorn  in  all  things  extant.  The  tastes  and 
habits  of  such  a  man  prevent  him  from 
being  a  boisterous  demagogue,  and  his  love 
of  truth  and  dislike  of  cant  keep  him  from 
advancing  crude  propositions,  such  as  many 


THE  WORLD  BEHIND  THE    SCENES. 


loud  reformers  are  constantly  ready  with  ; 
much  more  of  uttering  downright  falsehoods 
in  arguing  questions  or  abusing  opponents, 
which  he  would  die  or  starve  rather  than 
use.  It  was  not  in  our  friend's  nature  to  be 
able  to  utter  certain  lies  ;  nor  was  he  strong 
enough  to  protest  against  others,  except  with 
a  polite  sneer ;  his  maxim  being,  that  he 
owed  obedience  to  all  Acts  of  Parliament,  as 
long  as  they  were  not  repealed. 

And  to  what  does  this  easy  and  skeptical 
life  lead  a  man  ?  Friend  Arthur  was  a  Sad- 
ducee,  and  the  Baptist  might  be  in  the  Wil- 
derness shouting  to  the  poor,  who  were  lis- 
tening with  all  their  might  and  faith  to  the 
preacher's  awful  accents  and  denunciations 
of  wrath  o#  woe  or  salvation  ;  and  our  friend 
the  Sadducee  would  turn  his  sleek  mule 
with  a  shrug  and  a  smile  from  the  crowd, 
and  go  home  to  the  shade  of  his  terrace,  and 
muse  over  preacher  and  audience,  and  turn 
to  his  roll  of  Plato,  or  his  pleasant  Greek 
song  book  babbling  of  honey  and  Hybla,  and 
nymphs  and  fountains  and  love.  To  what, 
we  say,  does  this  skepticism  lead  ?  It  leads 
a  man  to  a  shameful  loneliness  and  selfish- 
ness, so  to  speak — the  more  shameful,  be- 
cause it  is  so  good-humored  and  conscience- 
less and  serene.  Conscience  1  What  is 
conscience  ?  Why  accept  remorse  ?  What  is 
public  or  private  faith  ?  Mythuses  alike  en- 
veloped in  enormous  tradition.  If  seeing 
and  acknowledging  the  lies  of  the  world,  Ar- 
thur, as  see  them  you  can  with  only  too  fa- 
tal a  clearness,  you  submit  to  them  without 
any  protest  farther  than  a  laugh :  if  plunged 
yourself  in  easy  sensuality,  you  allow  the 
whole  wretched  world  to  pass  groaning  by 
you  unmoved  :  if  the  fight  for  the  truth  is 
taking  place,  and  all  men  of  honor  are  on 
the  ground  armed  on  the  one  side  or  the 
ether,  and  you  alone  are  to  lie  on  your  bal- 
cony and  smoke  your  pipe  out  of  the  noise 
and  the  danger,  you  had  better  have  died,  or 
never  have  been  at  all,  than  such  a  sensual 
coward. 

"  The  truth,  friend  !  "  Arthur  said,  imper- 
t-.irbably  ;  "  where  is  the  truth  ?  Show  it  me. 
That  is  the  question  between  us.  I  see  it 
on  both  sides.  I  see  it  in  the  Conservative 
side  of  the  House,  and  amongst  the  Radicals, 
and  even  on  the  ministerial  benches.  I  see 
it  in  this  man  who  worships  by  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  is  rewarded  with  a  silk  apron  and 
five  thousand  a  year ;  in  that  man,  who, 
driven  fatally  by  the  remorseless  logic  of  his 
creed,  gives  up  every  thing,  friends,  fame, 
dearest  Lies,  closest  vanities..  J~tt  result  of 


an  army  of  churchmen,  the  recognized  posi- 
tion of  a  leader,  and  passes  over,  truth-im- 
pelled, to  the  enemy,  in  whose  ranks  he  is 
ready  to  serve  henceforth  as  a  nameless  pri- 
vate soldier  : — I  see  the  truth  in  that  man, 
as  I  do  in  his   brother,  whose  logic  drives 
him  to  quite  a  different  conclusion,  and  wh  o 
after  having  passed  a  life  in  vain  endeavors 
to  reconcile  an  irreconcilable  book,  flings  it, 
at  last  down  in  despair,  and  declares,  with 
tearful  eyes,  and  hands  up  to  Heaven,  his 
revolt  and  recantation.     If  the  truth  is  with 
all  these,  why  should  I  take  side  with  any 
one  of  them?      Some   are   called  upon  to 
preach  :  let  them  preach.    Of  these  preach- 
ers there  are  somewhat  too  many,  methinks, 
who  fancy  they  have  the  gift.     But  we  can 
not  all  be  parsons  in  church,  that  is  clear. 
Some  must  sit  silent  and  listen,  or  go  to 
sleep  mayhap.  Have  we  not  all  our  duties  ? 
The  head   charity-boy   blows   the  bellows  ; 
the  master  canes  the  other  boys  in  the  organ- 
loft  ;  the  clerk  sings  out  Amen  from  the  desk 
and  the  beadle  with  the  staff  opens  the  door 
for  his  Reverence,  who  rustics  in  silk  up  to 
the  cushion.     I  won't  cane  the  boys,  nay,  or 
say  Amen  always,  or  act  as   the    church's 
champion   or  warrior,  in    the  shape  of  the 
beadle  with  the  staff ;  but  I  will  take  off  my 
hat  in  the  place,  and  say  my  prayers  there 
too,  and  shake  hands  with  the  clergyman  as 
he  steps  on  the  grass  outside.  Don't  I  know 
that  his  being  there  is  a   compromise,  and 
that  he  stands  before  me  an  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment ?     That  the  church  he  occupies  was 
built  for  other  worship  ?     That  the  Metho- 
dist chapel  is  next  door  ;  and  that  Bunyan 
the    tinker    is   bawling  out  the  tidings  of 
damnation  on  the  common  hard  by  ?     Yes, 
I  am  a  Sadducee  ;  and  I  take   things   as    I 
find  them,  and   the  world    and  the  Acts  of 
Parliament  of  the  world,  as  they  are ;  and 
as  I  intend  to  take  a  wife,  if  I  find  one — not 
to  be  madly  in  love  and  prostrate  at  her  feet 
like  a  fool — not  to  worship  her  as  an  angel, 
or  to  expect  to  find  her  as  such — but  to  be 
good-natured  to  her,  end  courteous,  expect- 
ing good  nature  and  pleasant  society  from 
her  in  turn.     And  so,    George,  if  ever  you 
hear  of  my  marrying,  depend  on  it,  it  won't 
be  a  romantic  attachment  on  my  side  :  and 
if  you  hear  of  any  good  place  under  Govern- 
me'ht,  I  have  no  particular  scruples  that  I 
know  of,  which  would  prevent  me  from   ac- 
cepting your  offer." 

"  Oh,  Pen,  you  scoundrel  !  I  know  what 
you  mean,"  here  Warrington  broke  out. 
''  This  is  the  meaning  of  your  skepticism,  of 


VICTOR  HUGO. 


vour  quietism,  of  your  atheism,  my  poor  fel- 
low. You're  going  to  sell  yourself  and 
Heaven  help  you !  You  are  going  to  make  a 
bargain  that  will  degrade  you  and  make  you 
miserable  for  life,  and  there's  no  use  talking 
of  it.  If  you  are  once  bent  on  it,  the  devil 
won't  prevent  you."  .  , 

"  On  the  contrary,  he's  on  my  side,  isn  t 
he,  George  ?  "  said  Pen  with  a  laugh.  "  What 
good  cigars  these  are!  Come  down  and 
have  a  little  dinner  at  the  club  ;  the  chef  s 
in  town,  and  he'll  cook  a  good  one  for  me. 
No, you  won't?  Don't  be  sulky, old  boy,  I  m 
going  down  to — to  the  country  to-morrow. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

FOULLY  ASSASSINATED,  APRIL  14,  1865. 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  LINCOLN'S  bier, 
You,  who  with  mjcking  pencil  wont  to  trace, 

Broad  for  the  self-complacent  British  sneer, 

His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his  furrowed  face, 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his  unkempt,  bristling  hair, 
His  garb  uncouth,  his  bearing  ill  at  ease, 

His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair, 
Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art  to  please. 

You,  whose  smart  pen  backed  up  the  pencil's  laugh, 
Judging  each  step  as  though  the  way  were  plain: 

Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph, 
Of  chiefs  perplexity,  or  people's  pain. 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  bears  for  winding-sheet 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  he  lived  to  rear  anew, 

Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and  feet, 
Say,  scurril-jester,  is  there  room  for  you? 

Yes,  he  had  lived  to  sham ;  me  from  my  sneer, 
To  lame  my  pencil,  and  confute  my  pen — 

To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes  peer, 
This  rail-splitter  a  true-born  king  of  men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learnt  to  rue, 
Noting  how  to  occasion's  height  he  rose, 

How  his  quaint  wit  made  home-truth  seem  more  true, 
How,  iron-like,  his  temper  grew  by  blows. 

How  humble  yet  how  hopeful  he  could  be : 
How  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill  the  same : 

Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he, 
Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for  fame. 

Ho  went  about  his  work — such  work  as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart  ami  hand — 

As  one  who  knows,  where  there's  a  task  to  do, 
Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's  good  grace  command ; 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the  burden  grow, 
That  God  makes  instruments  to  work  his  will, 

If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know, 
Nor  UUII;HT  with  the  weights  of  good  and  ill, 


So  he  went  forth  to  battle,  on  the  side 
That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty's  and  Right's, 

As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 
His  warfare  with  rude  Nature's  thwarting  mights— 

The  uncleared  forest,  the  unbroken  soil, 
The  iron-bark,  that  turns  the  lumberer's  axe, 

The  rapid  that  o'erbears  the  boatman's  toil, 
The  prairie  hiding  the  mazed  wanderer's  tracks, 

The  ambushed  Indian,  and  the  prowling  bear — 
Such  were  the  needs  that  helped  his  needs  to  train: 

Rough  culture— but  such  trees  large  fruit  may  bear, 
If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and  grain. 

So  he  grew  up,  a  destined  work  to  do, 
And  lived  to  do  it:  four  long-suffering  years. 

Hi-fate,  ill-feeling,  ill-report,  lived  through, 
And  then  he  heard  the  hisses  change  to  cheers, 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise, 
And  took  both  with  the  same  unwavering  mood : 

Till,  as  he  came  on  light,  from  darkling  days, 
And  seemed  to  touch  the  goal  from  where  he  stood, 

A  felon  hand,  between  the  goal  and  him 
Reached  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger  prest, 

And  those  perplexed  and  patient  eyes  were  dim, 
Those  gaunt,  long  laboring  limbs  were  laid  at  rest. 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 
Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his  pen ; 

When  this  vile  murderer  brought  swift  eclipse 
To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men. 

The  Old  World  and  the  New,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and  shame, 

Sore  heart,  so  stopped  when  it  at  last  beat  high, 
Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its  triumph  came. 

A  deed  accurst !    Strokes  have  been  struck  before 
By  the  assassin's  hand,  whereof  men  doubt 

Of  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore  ; 
But  thy  foul  crime  like  Cain's  stands  daring  out. 

Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a  strife, 
Wliate'er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and  nobly  striven, 

And  with  the  martyr's  crown,  crownest  a  life 
With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be  forgiven. 

— PUNCH. 


VICTOR  HUGO— NAPOLEON  LE  PETIT. 

VICTOR  MARIE  HUGO,  born  at  Besancon,  February 
26,  1802,  is  one  of  the  most  eminent  writers  of  France. 
His  precocious  genius  early  produced  notable  poems  and 
romances,  and  Chateaubriand  decorated  him  with  the 
title  of  "  L'  enfant  mMtme."  At  first  a  royalist  and  a 
Catholic,  Hugo  became  in  1830  an  ardent  Republican; 


NAPOLEON  LE  PETIT. 


elects!  to  the  National  Assembly  in  1843,  he  became  one 
of  the  boldest  and  moat  eloquent  opponents  of  Louis  Na- 
poleon, in  his  designs  upon  the  supreme  power  in 
France,  and  had  the  honor  of  becoming  an  exile  at  the 
Coup  d'  Etut  of  December  2, 1851,  not  returning  to  France 
until  twenty  years  later,  on  the  downfall  of  Napoleon 
III. 

Victor  Hugo  has  produced  many  masterly  poems,  dra- 
mas and  romances.  His  style  is  vivid  and  intense.  He 
has  done  more  than  any  other  writer  to  discredit  and  to 
jupplant  the  so-called  classic  school  of  art  by  the  roman- 
tic. His  first  great  romance,  "Notre  Dame  de  Paris," 
(1831),  is  a  work  of  remarkable  originality,  and  "Les  Mir 
itcntblcs"  (1802),  displays  the  ripened  powers  of  a  great 
creative  intellect,  although  sometimes  obscured  by  er- 
rors of  taste. 

As  a  political  writer,  Hugo  wields  the  pen  of  a  master. 
In  "  Napoleon  Le  Petit,"  he  startles  us  by  the  boldness 
and  vigor  of  his  thought,  no  less  than  by  the  intensity 
of  his  style.  The  book  is  full  of  vivid  antithesis,  fierce 
denunciation,  biting  sarcasm,  glowing  apostrophe,  tow- 
ering climax,  and  terrible  invective.  He  denounces  the 
vices  of  Napoleon  IIL,  satirizes  his  weaknesses,  and 
blazes  with  indignation  at  his  crimes.  Whatever  may 
be  our  opinion  of  the  correctness  of  his  judgment  and 
the  fairness  of  his  book,  we  can  not  refuse  to  it  the  fore- 
most place  at  the  head  of  all  political  diatribes. 


History  has  its  tigers.  The  historians, 
those  immortal  keepers  of  ferocious  animals, 
exhibit  to  the  nations  that  imperial  menage- 
rie. Tacitus  has  seized  and  confined  eight  or 
ten  of  these  tigers  in  the  iron  cages  of  his 
style.  Behold  them :  they  are  frightful  and 
superb ;  their  spots  constitute  a  part  of  their 
beauty.  This  is  Nimrod,  the  hunter  of  men ; 
that  is  Busiris,  the  tyrant  of  Egypt;  that 
other  is  Phalaris,  who  caused  men  to  be 
baked  alive  in  a  brazen  bull,  that  he  might 
hear  the  bull  bellow ;  here  is  Ahasuerus,  who 
tore  the  scalp  from  the  heads  of  the  seven 
Maccabees,  and  caused  them  to  be  roasted 
alive ;  there  is  Nero,  the  burner  of  Rome, 
who  wrapped  the  Christians  in  wax  and  bitu- 
men, and  set  them  on  fire  like  torches  ;  there 
is  Tiberius,  the  man  of  Capreso ;  there  is  Do- 
mitian ;  here  is  Caracalla ;  there  is  Helioga- 
balus ;  that  other  is  Commodus,  who  has  this 
merit  the  more  in  the  horror  which  he  in- 
spires, that  he  was  the  son  of  Marcus  Aure- 
lius ;  these  are  the  Czars ;  those,  the  Sultans ; 
there  go  the  Popes, — behold  among  them  the 
tiger  Borgia ;  see  Philip,  called  the  Good, 
as  the  Furies  were  called  Eumenides ;  see 
Richard  III.,  sinister  and  deformed;  behold, 
with  his  great  face  and  his  huge  belly,  Henry 
VIII.,  who,  of  five  wives  that  he  had,  mur- 
dered three;  see  Christiern  II.,  the  Nero  of 
the  North;  behold  Philip  II.,  the  Demon  of 
the  South.  They  are  frightful ;  hear  them 


roar ;  consider  them,  one  after  the  other. 
The  historian  brings  them  out  before  you  ; 
the  historian  exhibits  them,  furious  and  terri- 
ble, at  the  side  of  the  cage,  opens  for  you 
their  jaws,  lets  you  see  their  teeth,  shows  you 
their  claws ;  you  can  say  of  every  one  of 
them,  'It  is  a  royal  tiger.'  In  truth,  they 
have  been  taken  upon  their  thrones.  History 
leads  them  forth  across  the  ages.  She  takes 
care  that  they  shall  not  die  ;  they  are  her 
tigers. 

She  does  not  mingle  with  them  the  jackals. 
She  keeps  and  guards  apart  those  unclean 
beasts.  M.  Louis  Bonaparte  will  be  found, 
with  Claudius,  with  Ferdinand  VII.  of  Spain, 
with  Ferdinand  II.  of  Naples,  in  the  cage  of 
the  hyenas. 

He  is  a  little  of  a  brigand,  and  very  much 
of  a  knave.  We  see  always  in  him  the  "  Chev- 
alier d"  Industrie,"  who  lived  by  his  wits  in 
England ;  his  actual  prosperity,  his  triumph, 
and  his  glory,  and  his  success,  go  for  nothing 
here;  that  mantle  of  purple  is  dragged  under 
the  mire  of  his  boots.  Napoleon  le  Petit, 
nothing  more,  nothing  less ;  the  title  of  our 
book  is  good.  The  baseness  of  his  vices  de- 
tracts from  the  grandeur  of  his  crimes.  What 
would  you  have?  Peter  the  Cruel  massacred, 
but  did  not  rob.  Henry  III.  assassinated, 
but  did  not  swindle.  Timour  trampled  little 
children  under  the  feet  of  his  horses,  just  as 
M.  Bonaparte  exterminated  women  and  old 
men  on  the  Boulevards ;  but  lie  did  not  lie. 
Listen  to  the  Arabian  historian :  '  Timour 
Beg,  Sahib  Keran, — ruler  of  the  world,  and 
of  his  age,  ruler  of  the  planetary  conjunc- 
tions,— was  born  at  Kesch,  in  1336.  He 
strangled  a  hundred  thousand  captives.  When 
he  besieged  Siwas,  the  inhabitants,  to  ap- 
pease him,  sent  out  to  him  a  thousand  little 
children,  each  bearing  a  Koran  upon  his 
head,  and  shouting,  Allah !  Allah !  He 
caused  the  sacred  books  to  be  removed  with 
respect,  and  the  children  to  be  crushed  under 
the  feet  of  horses.  He  employed  seventy 
thousand  human  heads,  with  cement,  stones, 
and  bricks,  in  building  towers  at  Herat,  at 
Sebzvar,  at  Tekrit,  at  Aleppo,  at  Bagdad.  lie 
despised  lying ;  when  he  Had  given  his  word, 
he  always  kept  it.' 

M.  Bonaparte  is  not  of  that  stature.  He 
has  not  that  dignity  which  the  great  despots  of 
the  East  and  of  the  West  mingled  with  their 
ferocity.  The  Cesarean  grandeur  is  wanting 
to  him.  To  keep  a  good  countenance,  and 
maintain  a  proper  air  among  all  those  illustri- 
ous executioners  who  have  tortured  humanity 
these  four  thousand  years,  one  must  not  hesi- 
tate in  his  mind  between  a  general  of  division 
and  a  beater  of  the  big  drum  on  the  Champs 
Elyse"es  ;  one  must  not  have  been  policeman 


VICTOR  HUGO. 


at  London  ;  one  must  not  have  endured,  with 
eyes  cast  down,  in  full  assembly  of  the  peers, 
the  haughty  contempt  of  M.  Magnan ;  one 
must  not  have  been  called  pickpocket  by  the 
English  journals ;  one  must  not  have  been 
threatened  with  Clichy  ;  one  must  not  repre- 
sent, in  a  word,  all  that  there  is  in  man  of  the 

knave. 

******** 

Providence  conducts  to  maturity,  by  the 
law  of  universal  life,  men,  things,  and  events. 
It  suffices,  in  order  that  an  old  world  may 
disappear,  that  civilization,  ascending  contin- 
ually towards  its  meridian,  should  shine  upon 
old  institutions,  old  prejudices,  old  laws,  old 
customs.  That  radiance  burns  up  and  de- 
vours the  past.  At  its  influence,  slowly,  and 
without  shock,  what  ought  to  decay,  decays; 
what  ought  to  decline,  declines ;  the  wrinkles 
of  age  grow  over  all  doomed  things, — over 
castes,  codes,  institutions,  religions.  This  work 
of  decrepitude  goes  on,  in  some  sort  of  itself. 
Yet  it  is  a  fruitful  decrepitude,  under  which 
shoots  the  germ  of  the  new  life.  Little  by 
little  the  ruin  is  prepared;  deep,  invisible 
cracks  spread  here  and  there  in  the  darkness, 
and  crumble  to  dust  from  below  that  venera- 
ble pile  which  still  stands  secure  above :  and 
behold,  some  fine  day.  all  at  once,  that  assem- 
blage of  worm-eaten  facts,  of  which  decaying 
societies  are  composed,  becomes  rotten;  the 
edifice  is  shaken,  loosened,  and  leans  over. 
Then  all  goes  for  nothing  henceforward.  Let 
there  arrive  one  of  those  giants  peculiar  to 
revolutions,  let  but  the  giant  raise  his  hand, 
and  all  is  over.  There  is  an  hour  in  history 
when  a  hunch  of  the  elbow  of  a  Danton 
may  overthrow  Europe. 

1848  was  one  of  those  hours : — old  feu- 
dal, monarchical,  and  papal  Europe,  plastered 
up  so  fatally  by  France  in  1815,  began  to  tot- 
ter. But  a  Danton  was  wanting.  The  over- 
throw did  not  come.  Men  have  often  said,  in 
the  hackneyed  phraseology  applied  to  such 
events,  that  1848  had  opened  a  gulf  in  human 
affairs.  No.  The  corpse  of  the  past  hung 
like  a  dead  weight  upon  Europe;  1848  opened 
a  grave  in  which  to  inter  that  corpse.  It  is 
that  grave  which  men  mistook  for  a  gulf. 

In  1848,  everything  which  held  by  the  past, 
— all  that  survived  of  that  corpse,  met  before 
that  grave, — not  only  kings  on  their  thrones, 
cardinals  under  their  hats,  judges  under  the 
shadow  of  the  guillotine,  captains  on  their  war- 
horses, — were  moved ;  but  whoever  had  an 
interest  of  whatever  sort  in  that  which  was 
about  to  disappear;  whoever  cultivated  to  his 
profit  a  social  fiction,  or  had  an  abuse  to  lease 
or  to  hire;  whoever  was  keeper  of  a  lie,  guard- 
ian of  a  prejudice,  or  farmer  of  a  superstition  ; 
whoever  robbed,  extorted,  oppressed,  lied ; 


whoever  sold  by  false  weights,  from  those  who 
altered  a  balance  to  those  who  falsified  the 
Bible,  from  the  bad  merchant  to  the  bad 
priest,  from  those  who  swindled  by  figures  to 
those  who  made  money  by  miracles; — all, 
from  a  certain  Jewish  banker,  who  fancied 
himself  a  little  of  a  Catholic,  to  a  certain 
Catholic  bishop,  who  became  a  little  of  a  Jew, 
— all  the  men  of  the  past  turned  their  heads 
toward  each  other  and  trembled. 

That  grave  which  was  yawning  for  them, 
and  into  which  were  to  fall  all  those  fictions 
which  have  weighed  upon  mankind  for  so 
many  ages,  they  resolved  to  close.  They  re- 
solved to  wall  it  up,  to  fill  it  with  stones  and 
with  rubbish,  and  to  erect  upon  that  pile  a 
gibbet,  and  to  crucify  upon  that  gibbet,  warm 
and  bleeding,  that  grand  criminal,  the  truth. 

They  resolved  to  make  an  end,  once  for  all, 
of  the  spirit  of  freedom  and  emancipation,  and 
to  arrest  and  turn  back  for  ever  the  ascending 
force  of  humanity . 

The  enterprise  was  formidable  ; — to  undo 
the  labor  of  twenty  generations ;  to  strangle 
in  the  nineteenth  century,  seizing  them  by 
the  throat,  three  centuries,  the  sixteenth,  the 
seventeenth,  and  the  eighteenth, — that  is  to 
say,  Luther,  Descartes,  and  Voltaire, — reli- 
gious inquiry,  philosophic  inquiry,  universal 
inquiry :  to  crush  throughout  Europe  that 
immense  vegetation  of  free  thought,  springing 
up  here  like  a  huge  oak,  there  like  a  blade  of 
grass;  to  marry  the  knout  and  the  crosier; 
to  diffuse  more  of  Spain  in  the  South,  and 
more  of  Russia  in  the  North ;  to  revive  all 
that  they  could  of  the  Inquisition,  and  to  ex- 
tinguish all  that  they  could  of  intelligence; 
to  stultify  the  youth,  in  other  words,  to  bru- 
talize the  future;  to  cause  the  world  to  assist 
at  the  auto  dafe  of  ideas;  to  overthrow  the 
tribunes  ;  to  suppress  the  journal,  the  hand- 
bill, the  book,  the  speech,  the  cry,  the  mur- 
mur, the  whisper ;  to  enforce  silence ;  to 
prosecute  thought,  in  the  case  of  the  printer, 
in  the  composing-stick,  in  the  type,  in  the 
stereotype,  in  the  lithograph,  in  the  picture, 
in  the  theatre,  on  the  platform,  in  the  book  of 
the  schoolmaster,  in  the  pack  of  the  colpor- 
teur; to  give  to  every  man,  for  faith,  for  law, 
for  aim,  and  for  God, — material  interest ;  to 
say  to  the  people,  '  Eat,  and  think  not' ;  to 
take  away  from  man  the  brain,  and  leave  him 
only  the  belly ;  to  extinguish  individual  en- 
terprise, local  life,  national  enthusiasm,  all 
those  profound  instincts  which  impel  men 
toward  the  right ;  to  annihilate  that  person- 
ality of  the  nations,  which  men  call  country ; 
to  destroy  nationality  among  scattered  and 
dismembered  people,  the  constitution  in  con- 
stitutional states,  the  republic  in  France, 
liberty  everywhere  ;  to  set  foot  in  every  di- 


NAPOLEON  LE  PETIT. 


rection  upon  human  effort ; — in  a  word,  to 
close  that  gulf  which  is  called  Progress. 

Such  was  the  vast,  enormous,  European 
plan,  which  no  one  conceived,  for  none  of 
those  men  of  the  Old  World  had  the  genius 
for  that,  but  which  all  pursued.  As  to  the 
plan  in  itself,  as  to  that  gigantic  idea  of  uni- 
versal oppression,  whence  came  it  ?  Who 
can  tell  ?  Men  saw  it  in  the  air.  It  ap- 
peared on  the  side  of  the  past.  It  enlight- 
ened certain  minds.  It  pointed  out  certain 
modes  of  action.  It  was  a  kind  of  glimmer 
issuing  from  the  tomb  of  Machiavelli. 

At  certain  moments  in  human  history,  at 
some  things  that  are  plotted,  at  some  things 
that  are  done,  it  seems  as  if  all  the  old  de- 
mons of  humanity — Louis  XI.,  Philip  II., 
Catherine  de'  Medici,  the  Duke  of  Alba,  Tor- 
quemada — were  gathered  apart  in  a  corner, 
seated  around  a  table,  and  holding  council. 
We  look,  we  regard  them,  and  instead  of 
these  colossals,  we  find  only  abortions.  We 
expected  the  Duke  of  Alba,  we  find  Schwartz- 
enberg ;  we  looked  for  Torquemada,  and  be- 
hold Veuillot.  The  old  European  despotism 
continues  its  march,  under  the  lead  of  these 
little  men,  and  goes  always  on.  It  is  like 
the  Czar  Peter  in  his  travels.  "We  made  re- 
lays of  whatever  we  found,"  writes  he; 
"when  we  could  get  no  more  Tartar  horses, 
we  took  up  with  asses."  To  attain  that  end, 
the  subjection  of  all  men  and  all  things,  it 
was  necessary  to  enter  upon  a  path,  obscure, 
tortuous,  steep,  difficult ;  they  did  enter  it. 
Some  of  those  who  entered  it  knew  what 
they  were  doing. 

Parties  live  upon  words  ;  those  men  whom 
1848  had  frightened  and  rallied  together  have 
found  their  catchwords, — religion,  family, 
property.  They  attacked,  with  that  vulgar 
address  which  suffices  when  men  speak  to 
fear,  certain  obscure  quarters  of  what  is 
called  socialism.  The  struggle  was  to  save 
religion,  property,  and  family.  "Follow 
your  banners  !"  cried  they.  The  herd  of 
frightened  interests  rushed  after  them. 

They  coalesced,  they  made  front,  they 
gathered  a  party.  They  had  a  crowd  around 
them.  That  crowd  was  composed  of  divers 
elements.  The  landholder  joined  it  because 
his  rents  had  come  down  ;  the  peasant,  be- 
cause he  had  paid  the  forty-five  centimes  : 
the  man  who  did  not  believe  in  God  thought 
it  was  necessary  to  save  religion,  because  he 
had  been  forced  to  sell  his  horses.  They 
separated  from  this  crowd  the  force  which  it 
contained,  and  availed  themselves  of  it. 
They  enforced  the  system  of  oppression  by 
every  means, — by  the  law,  by  the  vote,  by 
the  legislature,  by  the  tribune,  by  the  jury, 
by  the  magistracy,  by  the  police ;  in  Lom- 


bardy,  by  the  sabre  ;  in  Naples,  by  the  gal- 
leys ;  in  Hungary,  by  the  gibbet.  To  re- 
strain intelligence, — to  put  the  chain  upon 
intellects, — their  fugitive  slaves, — to  prevent 
the  past  from  disappeai'ing,  to  prevent  the 
future  from  being  born, — to  continue  them- 
selves kings,  princes,  nobles,  privileged  clas- 
ses,— everything  became  good,  everything 
just ;  all  was  legitimate.  They  organized 
for  the  necessities  of  the  struggle,  and  spread 
abroad  in  the  world,  a  kind  of  moral  ambus- 
cade against  freedom,  which  Ferdinand  put 
in  action  at  Palermo,  Antonelli  at  Rome, 
Schwartzenberg  at  Milan  and  at  Pesth,  and 
still  later,  the  men  of  December,  those  wolves 
of  the  state,  at  Paris. 

*  *  *  *  Formerly  the  world  was  a  place 
where  men  walked  with  slow  steps,  with 
backs  bent,  faces  lowered ;  where  the  Count 
de  Gouvion  was  waited  upon  at  table  by  Jean- 
Jacques  (Rousseau) ;  where  the  Chevalier  de 
Rohan  beat  Voltaire  with  blows  of  a  cudgel ; 
where  they  set  Daniel  De  Foe  in  the  pillory ; 
where  a  city  like  Dijon  was  separated  from  a 
city  like  Paris  by  a  will  to  be  made,  by  rob- 
bers at  all  the  corners  of  the  woods,  and  by 
ten  days  of  coach  :  where  a  book  was  a  kind 
of  infamy  and  rubbish  which  the  executioner 
burned  on  the  steps  of  the  Hall  of  Justice ; 
where  superstition  and  ferocity  joined  hand 
in  hand ;  where  the  pope  said  to  the  emperor : 
Jungamus  dezteras,  gladium  gladio  copulemus  ; 
where  one  encountered  at  every  step  crosses 
on  which  were  hung  amulets,  and  gibbets  on 
which  were  hung  men ;  where  there  were 
heretics,  Jews,  lepers  ;  where  the  houses  had 
battlements  and  loopholes  ;  where  they  shut 
up  the  streets  with  a  chain,  the  rivers  with  a 
chain,  the  cities  with  walls,  the  kingdoms 
with  prohibitions  and  penalties  ;  where,  ex- 
cept authority  and  force,  which  were  closely 
banded,  all  was  penned  up,  doled  out,  cut  up, 
divided,  parcelled,  hated  and  hating,  scat- 
tered and  dead ;  men  but  dust — power,  the 
king  Log. 

Now,  there  is  a  world  in  which  all  is  alive, 
united,  combined,  related,  mingled  together ; 
a  world  where  reign  thought,  commerce,  and 
industry ;  where  politics,  continually  more 
settled,  tends  to  associate  itself  with  science ; 
a  world  where  the  last  scaffolds  and  the  last 
cannon  are  hastening  to  cut  off  their  last 
heads,  and  to  vomit  their  list  shells ;  a  world 
where  the  day  grows  with  each  minute ;  a 
world  in  which  distance  has  disappeared, 
where  Constantinople  is  nearer  to  Paris  than 
Lyons  was  a  century  ago,  where  America  and 
Europe  throb  with  the  same  pulsation  of  the 
heart;  a  world  all  circulation  and  all  affec- 
tion, whose  brain  is  France,  whose  arteries 
are  railways,  and  whose  fibres  are  the  electric 


10 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  DYING. 


wires.  Do  you  not  see  that  simply  to  state 
such  a  situation,  is  to  explain,  to  demon- 
strate, and  to  solve  everything  ?  Do  you  not 
perceive  that  the  old  world  was  fatally  pos- 
sessed by  an  old  spirit,  tyranny,  and  that 
upon  the  new  world  must  necessarily,  irresis- 
tibly, divinely  descend  a  new  spirit,  that  of 

liberty  ? 

•*        *****        * 

Let  us  proclaim  it  firmly,  proclaim  it  even  in 
fall  and  in  defeat,  this  age  is  the  grandest  of  all 
ages ;  and  do  you  know  wherefore  ?  Because 
it  is  the  most  benignant.  This  age,  the  imme- 
diate issue  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  its 
first-born,  enfranchises  the  slave  in  America, 
uplills  the  pariah  in  Asia,  destroys  the  suttee 
in  India,  and  extinguishes  in  Europe  the  last 
brands  of  the  stake,  civilizes  Turkey,  pene- 
trates the  Koran  with  the  Gospel,  dignifies 
woman,  subordinates  the  right  of  the  strong- 
est to  the  right  of  the  most  just,  suppresses 
pirates,  ameliorates  penal  laws,  purifies  the 
galleys,  throws  the  bloody  sword  in  the  gut- 
ter, condemns  the  death  penalty,  takes  the 
chain  and  ball  from  the  foot  of  the  convict, 
abolishes  torture,  degrades  and  stigmatizes 
war,  weakens  the  dukes  of  Alba  and  the 
Charles  Ninths,  plucks  out  the  fangs  from 
tyrants. 

This  age  proclaims  the  sovereignty  of  the 
citizen,  and  the  inviolability  of  life;  it  crowns 
the  people  and  consecrates  man. 

In  art,  it  possesses  every  kind  of  genius: 
writers,  orators,  poets,  historians,  publicists, 
philosophers,  painters,  sculptors,  musicians; 
majesty,  grace,  power,  figure,  splendor,  depth, 
color,  form,  style ;  it  reinforces  itself  at  once 
in  the  real  and  in  the  ideal,  and  carries  in  its 
hand  those  two  thunderbolts,  the  true  and  the 
beautiful.  In  science  it  works  all  miracles ; 
it  makes  saltpetre  out  of  cotton,  a  horse  out 
of  steam,  a  laborer  out  of  the  voltaic  pile,  a 
courier  out  of  the  electric  fluid,  and  a  painter 
of  the  sun ;  it  bathes  itself  in  the  subterra- 
nean waters,  while  it  is  warmed  with  the 
central  fires ;  it  opens  upon  the  two  infinites 
those  two  windows,  the  telescope  on  the  in- 
finitely great,  the  microscope  on  the  infinitely 
little,  and  it  finds  in  the  first  abyss  the  stars 
of  heaven,  and  in  the  second  abyss  the  insects 
which  prove  the  existence  of  a  God.  It  an- 
nihilates time,  it  annihilates  distance,  it 
annihilates  suffering ;  it  writes  a  letter  from 
Paris  to  London,  and  has  the  answer  back  in 
ten  minutes :  it  cuts  off  the  leg  of  a  man — 
the  man  sings  and  smiles. 

It  has  only  to  realize  —  and  it  already 
touches  it — a  progress  which  is  nothing  by 
the  side  of  the  other  miracles  which  it  has 
already  achieve  1 :  it  has  only  to  find  the 
means  of  directing  in  a  body  of  air  a  bubbl* 


of  air  still  lighter ;  it  has  already  found  the 
bubble  of  air,  it  holds  it  imprisoned  ;  it  has 
yet  only  to  find  the  impulsive  force,  only  to 
create  the  vacuum  before  the  balloon,  for 
example,  only  to  heat  the  air  before  the 
aeronaut,  as  the  rocket  does  before  it ;  it  has 
only  to  solve  in  some  manner  this  problem — 
and  it  will  be  solved.  And  do  you  know 
what  will  happen  then  ?  On  the  very  instant, 
frontiers  will  disappear,  barriers  will  vanish 
away.  All  that  is  thrown  like  a  Chinese  wall 
around  thought,  around  commerce,  around  in- 
dustry, around  nationality,  around  progress, 
will  crumble ;  in  spite  of  censorships,  in  spite 
of  the  index,  expurgatorius,  it  will  rain  books 
and  journals  everywhere ;  Voltaire,  Diderot, 
Rousseau  will  fall  in  showers  on  Rome,  on 

I  Naples,  on  Vienna,  on  St.  Petersburg;  the 
human  Word  becomes  manna,  and  the  serf 
gathers  it  in  the  furrow ;  fanaticisms  die ; 
oppression  becomes  impossible ;  man  no  long- 
er crawls  upon  the  earth,  he  escapes  from  it ; 
civilization  takes  to  itself  the  wings  of  birds, 
and  flies  and  whirls  and  alights  joyously  on 
all  parts  of  the  globe  at  once :  hold !  see 

i  there — it  passes;  point  your  cannon,  ye  old 
despotisms,  it  disdains  you  ;  you  are  but  the 
cannon  ball,  it  is  the  flash  of  lightning:  no 
more  hatreds,  no  more  interests  devouring 
one  anothe'r,  no  more  wars ;  a  kind  of  new 
life,  made  up  of  concord  and  of  light,  sur- 
rounds and  soothes  the  world ;  the  brother- 
hood of  nations  crosses  the  bounds  of  space 
and  mingles  in  the  eternal  blue  ;  men  frater- 
nize in  the  heavens. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  DYING. 

The  following  verses  were  written  by  one  of  a  com- 
pany of  British  officers  stationed  in  India,  where  a  ma- 
lignant plague  had  broken  out  among  them,  from  which 
there  was  no  escape. 

We  meet  'neath  the  sounding  rafter, 

And  the  walls  around  are  bare; 
As  they  echo  the  peals  of  luughter. 
It  seems  that  the  dead  are  there ; 
But  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

We  drink  to  our  comrades'  eyes, 
Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already — 
And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dio*! 

Time  was  when  we  frowned  at  ethers; 

We  thought  we  were  wiser  then ; 
Ha!  ha!  let  those  think  of  mothers, 

Who  hope  to  see  them  again. 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 


11 


No  !  stand  to  your  glasses  steady ; 

The  thoughtless  are  here  the  wise, 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

There's  many  a  hand  that's  shaking, 
There's  many  a  cheek  that's  sunk ; 
But  soon,  though  our  hearts  are  breaking, 
They'll  burn  with  the  wine  we  have  drunk. 
So  stand  to  your  glasses  steady — 

'Tis  here  the  revival  lies; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  I 

Who  dreads  to  the  dust  returning? 

Who  shrinks  from  the  sable  shore, 
Where  the  high  and  haughty  yearning 
Of  the  soul  shall  sting  no  more? 
IIo !  stand  to  your  glasses  steady — 

This  world  is  a  world  of  lies; 
A  cup  for  the  dead  already — 
Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 

Cut  off  from  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Betrayed  by  the  land  we  find, 
Where  the  brightest  have  gone  before  us, 
And  the  dullest  remain  behind — 
Stand,  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

'Tis  all  we  have  loft  to  prize, 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — • 
And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

CAPTAIN  Dowiiire. 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 

Four-and-thirty  years  ago,  Bob  Ainslie  and 
I  were  coming  up  Infirmary  Street  from  the 
Edinburgh  High  School,  our  heads  together, 
and  our  arms  intertwisted,  as  only  lovers  and 
boys  know  how,  or  why. 

When  we  got  to  the  top  of  the  street,  and 
turned  north,  we  espied  a  crowd  at  the  Tron 
Church.  "A  dog-fight!"  shouted  Bob,  and 
was  off;  and  so  was  I,  both  of  us  all  but 
praying  that  it  might  not  be  over  before  we 
got  up !  And  is  not  this  boy-nature  ?  and 
human  nature  too  ?  and  don't  we  all  wish  a 
house  on  fire  not  to  be  out  before  we  see  it  ? 
Dogs  like  fighting;  old  Isaac  says  they  "de- 
light" in  it,  and  for  the  best  of  all  reasons  ; 
and  boys  are  not  cruel  because  they  like  to 
see  the  fight.  They  see  three  of  the  great 
cardinal  virtues  of  dog  or  man — courage,  en- 
durance, and  skill — in  intense  action.  This 
is  very  different  from  a  love  of  making  dogs 
fight,  and  enjoying,  and  aggravating,  and 
making  gain  by  their  pluck.  A  boy,  be  ho 
ever  so  fond  himself  of  fighting,  if  he  be  a 
good  boy,  hates  and  despises  all  this,  but  he 
would  have  run  oJ  wltli  Bob  and  me  fa^t 


enough  :  it  is  a  natural,  and  a  not  wicked 
interest,  that  all  boys  and  men  have  in  wit- 
nessing intense  energy  in  action. 

Does  any  curious  and  finely  ignorant  wo- 
man wish  to  know  how  Bob's  eye  at  a  glance 
announced  a  dog-fight  to  his  brain  ?  He  did 
not,  he  could  not  see  the  dogs  fighting ;  it 
was  a  flash  of  an  inference,  a  rapid  induction. 
The  crowd  round  a  couple  of  dogs  fighting  is 
a  crowd  masculine  mainly,  with  an  occasional 
active,  compassionate  woman,  fluttering  wild- 
ly round  the  outside,  and  using  her  tongue 
and  her  hands  freely  upon  the  men,  as  so 
many  "brutes;"  it  is  a  crowd  annular,  com- 
pact, and  mobile;  a  crowd  centripetal,  having 
its  eyes  and  its  heads  all  bent  downwards  and 
inwards,  to  one  common  focus. 

Well,  Bob  and  I  are  up,  and  find  it  is  not 
over:  a  small,  thoroughbred,  white  bull- 
terrier  is  busy  throttling  a  large  shepherd's 
dog,  unaccustomed  to  war,  but  not  to  be 
trifled  with.  They  are  hard  at  it ;  the  scien- 
tific little  fellow  doing  his  work  in  great  style, 
his  pastoral  enemy  fighting  wildly,  but  with 
the  sharpest  of  teeth  and  a  great  courage. 
Science  and  breeding,  however,  soon  had 
their  own  ;  the  Game  Chicken,  as  the  prema- 
ture Bob  called  him,  working  his  way  up, 
took  his  final  grip  of  poor  Yarrow's  throat, — 
and  he  lay  gasping  and  done  for.  His  mas- 
ter, a  brown,  handsome,  big  young  shepherd 
from  Tweedsmuir,  would  have  liked  to  have 
knocked  down  any  man,  would  "  drink  up 
Esil,  or  eat  a  crocodile,"  for  that  part,  if  he 
had  a  chance :  it  was  no  use  kicking  the  little 
dog ;  that  would  only  make  him  hold  the 
closer.  Many  were  the  means  shouted  out  in 
mouthfuls,  of  the  best  possible  ways  of  ending 
it.  "  Water !"  but  there  was  none  near,  and 
many  cried  for  it  who  might  have  got  it  from 
the  well  at  Blackfriars  Wynd.  "Bite  the 
tail!"  and  a  large,  vague,  benevolent,  middle- 
aged  .  man,  more  desirous  than  wise,  with 
some  struggle  got  the  bushy  end  of  Yarrow's 
tail  into  his  ample  mouth,  and  bit  it  with  all 
his  might.  This  was  more  than  enough  for 
the  much-enduring,  much-perspiring  shep- 
herd, who,  with  a  gleam  of  joy  over  his 
broad  visage,  delivered  a  terrific  facer  upon 
our  large,  vague,  benevolent,  middle-aged 
friend, — who  went  down  like  a  shot. 

Still  the  Chicken  holds  ;  death  not  far  off. 
"Snuff!  a  pinch  of  snuff!"  observed  a  calm, 
highly  dressed  young  buck,  with  an  eye-glass 
in  his  eye.  "Snuff,  indeed!"  growled  the 
angry  crowd,  affronted  and  glaring.  "Snuff! 
a  pinch  of  snuff !"  again  observes  the  buck, 
but  with  more  urgency ;  whereon  were  pro- 
duced several  open  boxes,  and  from  a  mull 
which  may  have  been  fit  Culloden,  he  took  a 
pinch,  knelt  down,  and  presented  it  to  tiio 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 


nose  of  the  Chicken.  The  laws  of  physiology 
and  of  snuff  uke  their  course ;  the  Chicken 
sneezes,  and  Yarrow  is  free  ! 

The  young  pastoral  giant  stalks  off  with 
Yarrow  in  his  arms, — comforting  him. 

But  the  Bull  Terrier's  blood  is  up,  and  his 
soul  unsatisfied ;  he  grips  the  first  clog  he 
meets,  and  discovering  she  is  not  a  dog,  in 
Homeric  phrase,  he  makes  a  brief  sort  of 
amende,  and  is  off.  The  boys,  with  Bob  and 
me  at  their  head,  are  after  him :  down  Nid- 
dry  Street  he  goes  bent  on  mischief;  up  the 
Cowgate  like  an  arrow, — Bob  and  I,  and  our 
small  men,  panting  behind. 

There,  under  the  single  arch  of  the  South 
Bridge,  is  a  huge  mastiff,  sauntering  down  the 
middle  of  the  causeway,  as  if  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets :  he  is  old,  gray,  brindled,  as 
big  as  a  little  Highland  bull,  and  has  the 
Shakespearian  dewlaps  shaking  as  he  goes. 

The  Chicken  makes  straight  at  him,  and 
fastens  on  his  throat.  To  our  astonishment, 
the  great  creature  does  nothing  but  stand 
still,  hold  himself  up,  and  roar, — yes,  roar ; 
a  long,  serious,  rcmonstrative  roar.  How  is 
this?  Bob  and  I  are  up  to  them.  He  is 
muzzled .'  The  bailies  had  proclaimed  a 
general  muzzling,  and  his  master,  studying 
strength  and  economy  mainly,  had  encom- 
passed his  huge  jaws  in  a  home-made  appa- 
ratus, constructed  out  of  the  leather  of  some 
ancient  breechin.  His  mouth  was  open  as  far 
as  it  could  be ;  his  lips  curled  up  in  rage, — a 
sort  of  terrible  grin ;  his  teeth  gleaming, 
ready,  from  out  the  darkness ;  the  strap 
across  his  mouth  tense  as  a  bowstring ;  his 
whole  frame  stiff  with  indignation  and  sur- 
prise ;  his  roar  asking  us  all  round,  "  Did 
you  ever  see  the  like  of  this?"  He  looked  a 
statue  of  anger  and  astonishment,  done  in 
Aberdeen  granite. 

We  soon  had  a  crowd:  the  Chicken  held 
on.  "A  knife!"  cried  Bob;  and  a  cobbler 
gave  him  his  knife;  you  know  the  kind  of 
knife,  worn  away  obliquely  to  a  point,  and 
always  keen.  I  put  its  edge  to  the  tense 
leather;  it  ran  before  it;  and  then! — one 
sud  len  jerk  of  that  enormous  head,  a  sort  of 
dirty  mist  about  his  mouth,  no  noise, — and 
the  bright  and  fierce  little  fellow  is  dropped, 
limp  and  dead.  A  solemn  pause ;  this  was 
more  than  any  of  us  had  bargained  for.  I 
turned  the  little  fellow  over,  and  saw  he  was 
quite  dead ;  the  mastiff  had  taken  him  by  the 
small  of  the  back  like  a  rat.  and  broken  it. 

He  looked  down  at  his  victim  appeased, 
ashamed,  and  amazed;  snuffed  him  all  over, 
stared  at  him,  and  taking  a  sudden  thought, 
turned  round  and  trotted  off.  Bob  took  the 
dead  dog  up,  and  said,  "John,  we'll  bury 
Jiiiu  after  tea."  "  Yes,"  said  1,  and  was  ou 


after  the  mastiff.  He  made  up  the  Cowgate 
at  a  rapid  swing  ;  he  had  forgotten  some  en- 
gagement. He  turned  up  the  Candlemaker 
Row,  and  stopped  at  the  Harrow  Inn. 

There  was  a  carrier's  cart  ready  to  start, 
and  a  keen,  thin,  impatient,  black-a-vised  lit- 
tle man,  his  hand  at  his  gray  horse's  head, 
looking  about  angrily  for  something. 

"  Rab,  ye  thief!"  said  he,  aiming  a  kick  at 
my  great  friend,  who  drew  cringing  up,  and 
avoiding  the  heavy  shoe  with  more  agility 
than  dignity,  and  watching  his  master's  eye, 
slunk  dismayed  under  the  cart, — his  ears 
down,  and  as  much  as  he  had  of  tail  down 
too. 

What  a  man  this  must  be, — thought  I, — to 
whom  my  tremendous  hero  turns  tail !  The 
carrier  saw  the  muzzle  hanging,  cut  and  use- 
less, from  his  neck,  and  I  eagerly  told  him 
the  story,  which  Bob  and  I  always  thought, 
and  still  think,  Homer,  or  King  David,  or  Sir 
Walter  alone  were  worthy  to  rehearse.  The 
severe  little  man  was  mitigated,  and  conde- 
scended to  say,  "  Rab,  my  man,  puir  Rabbie," 
— whereupon  the  stump  of  a  tail  rose  up,  the 
ears  were  cocked,  the  eyes  filled,  and  were 
comforted ;  the  two  friends  were  reconciled. 
"  Hupp  !"  and  a  stroke  of  the  whip  were  given 
to  Jess  ;  and  off  went  the  three. 

Bob  and  I  buried  the  Game  Chicken  that 
night  (we  had  not  much  of  a  tea)  in  the  back- 
green  of  his  house  in  Melville  Street,  No.  17, 
with  considerable  gravity  and  silence ;  and 
being  at  the  time  in  the  Iliad,  and,  like  all 
boys,  Trojans,  we  called  him  Hector,  of  course. 

Six  years  have  passed, — a  long  time  for  a 
boy  and  a  dog :  Bob  Ainslie  is  off  to  the  wars ; 
I  am  a  medical  student,  and  clerk  at  Minto 
House  Hospital. 

Rab  I  saw  almost  every  week,  on  the  Wed- 
nesday ;  and  we  had  much  pleasant  intimacy. 
I  found  the  way  to  his  heart  by  frequent 
scratching  of  his  huge  head,  and  an  occasion- 
al bone.  When  I  did  not  notice  him  he  would 
plant  himself  straight  before  me,  and  stand 
wagging  that  bud  of  a  tail,  and  looking  up, 
with  his  head  a  little  to  the  one  side.  His 
master  I  occasionally  saw ;  he  used  to  call  me 
"  Maister  John,"  but  was  laconic  as  any 
Spartan. 

One  line  October  afternoon,  I  was  leaving 
the  hospital,  when  I  saw  the  large  gate  open, 
and  in  walked  Rah,  with  that  great  and  easy 
saunter  of  his.  He  looked  as  if  taking  gener- 
al possession  of  the  place ;  like  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  entering  a  subdued  city,  satiated 
with  victory  and  peace.  After  him  came  Jess, 
now  white  with  age,  with  her  cart ;  and  in  it 
a  woman,  carefully  wrapped  up, — the  carrier 
leading  the  horse  anxiously,  and  looking 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 


13 


back.  When  he  saw  me,  James  (  for  his 
name  was  James  Noble)  made  a  curt  and  gro- 
tesque "  boo,"  and  said,  "  Maister  John,  this 
is  the  mistress ;  she's  got  trouble  in  her 
breest, — some  kind  o'  an  income  we're  think- 
in'." 

By  this  time   I  saw  the  woman's  face;  she 

was  sitting  on  a  sack  filled  with  straw,  her 

husband's  plaid  round   her,  and  his  big-coat, 

with  its  large  white   metal  buttons,  over  her 

'  feet. 

I  never  saw  a  more  unforgetable  face, — 
pale,  serious,  lonely*  delicate,  sweet,  without 
being  at  all  what  we  call  fine.  She  looked 
sixty,  and  had  on  a  mutch,  white  as  snow, 
with  its  black  ribbon ;  her  silvery,  smooth 
hair  setting  off  her  dark-gray  eyes, — eyes 
sucli  as  one  sees  only  twice  or  thrice  in  a 
lifetime,  full  of  suffering,  full  also  of  the  over- 
coming of  it :  her  eyebrows  black  and  delicate, 
and  her  mouth  firm,  patient,  and  contented, 
which  few  mouths  ever  are. 

As  I  have  said,  I  never  saw  a  more  beau- 
tiful countenance,  or  one  more  subdued  to 
settled  quiet.  "Ailie,"  said  James,  "  this  is 
Maister  John,  the  young  doctor;  Rab's 
freend,  ye  ken.  We  often  speak  aboot  you, 
doctor."  She  smiled,  and  made  a  movement, 
but  said  nothing ;  and  prepared  to  come  down, 
putting  her  plai  1  aside  and  rising.  Had  Sol- 
omon, in  all  his  glory,  been  handing  down  the 
Queen  of  Sheba  at  his  palace  gate,  he  could 
not  have  done  it  more  daintily,  more  tenderly, 
more  like  a  gentleman,  than  did  James  tli3 
Howgate  carrier,  when  he  lifted  down  Ailic 
his  wife.  The  contrast  of  his  small,  swarthy, 
weather-beaten,  keen,  worldly  face  to  hers — 
pale,  subdued,  and  beautiful — was  something 
wonderful.  Rab  lookel  on  concerned  and 
puzzled,  but  ready  for  anything  that  might 
turn  up, — were  it  to  strangle  the  nurse,  the 
porter,  or  even  me.  Ailie  and  he  seemed  to 
be  great  friends. 

"As  I  was  sayin',  she's  got  a  kind  o'  trou- 
ble in  her  breest,  doctor;  wull  ye  tak'  a  look 
at  it  ?"  We  walked  into  the  consulting-room, 
all  four;  Rab  grim  and  comic,  willing  to  be 
happy  and  confidential  if  cause  could  be 
shown,  willing  also  to  be  the  reverse,  on  the 
same  terms.  Ailie  sat  down,  undid  her  open 
gown  and  her  lawn  handkerchief  round  her 
ne^k,  and  without  a  word  showed  me  her 
right  breast.  I  looked  at  and  examined  it 
carefully, — she  and  James  watching  me,  and 
Rab  eyeing  all  three.  What  could  I  say? 
there  it  was,  that  had  once  been  so  soft,  so 
shapely,  so  white,  so  gracious  and  bountiful, 
*o  "full  of  all  blessed  conditions," — hard 

*  It  i3  not  easy  giving  this  look  by  one  word;  it  was 
expressive  of  her  being  so  much  of  her  life  alone. 


as  a  stone,  a  centre  of  horrid  pain,  making 
that  paie  face,  with  its  gray,  lucid,  reasonable 
eyes,  and  its  sweet,  resolved  mouth,  express 
the  full  measure  of  suffering  overcome.  Why 
was  that  gentle,  modest,  sweet  woman,  clean 
and  lovable,  condemned  by  God  to  bear  such 
a  burden  ? 

I  got  her  away  to  bed.  "  May  Rab  and  me 
bide?"  said  James.  "  You  may  ;  and  Rab,  if 
he  will  behave  himself."  "  I'se  warrant  he's 
do  that,  doctor ' '  ;  and  in  slank  the  faithful 
beast.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him. 
There  are  no  such  dogs  now.  He  belonged  to 
a  lost  tribe.  As  I  have  said,  he  was  brindled 
and  gray  like  Rubislaw  granite;  his  hair 
short,  hard,  and  close,  like  a  lion's;  his  body 
thickset,  like  a  little  bull, — a  sort  of  com- 
pressed Hercules  of  a  dog.  He  must  have 
been  ninety  pounds'  weight,  at  the  least;  he 
had  a  large  blunt  head ;  his  muzzle  black  as 
night,  his  mouth  blacker  than  any  night,  a 
tooth  or  two — being  all  he  had — gleaming 
out  of  his  jaws  of  darkness.  His  head  was 
scarred  with  the  records  of  old  wounds,  a 
sort  of  series  of  fields  of  battle  all  over  it ;  one 
eye  out,  one  ear  cropped  as  close  as  was  Arch- 
bishop Leigh  ton's  father's;  the  remaining 
eye  had  the  power  of  two  ;  and  above  it,  and 
in  constant  communication  with  it,  was  a 
tattered  rag  of  an  ear,  which  was  forever  un- 
furling itself,  like  an  old  flag ;  and  then  that 
bud  of  a  tail,  about  one  inch  long,  if  it  could  in 
any  sense  be  said  to  be  long,  being  as  broad 
as  long, — the  mobility,  the  instantaneousness 
of  that  bud  were  very  funny  and  surprising, 
and  its  expressive  twinklings  and  winkings, 
the  intercommunications  between  the  eye, 
the  ear,  and  it,  were  of  the  oddest  and  swift- 
est. 

Rab  had  the  dignity  and  simplicity  of  great 
size ;  and  having  fought  his  way  all  along  the 
road  to  absolute  supremacy,  he  was  as  mighty 
in  his  own  line  as  Julius  Caesar  or  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  and  had  the  gravity  *  of  all 
great  fighters. 

You  must  have  often  observed  the  likeness 
of  certain  men  to  certain  animals,  and  of  cer- 
tain dogs  to  men.  Now,  I  never  looked  at 
Rab  without  thinking  of  the  great  Baptist 
preacher,  Andrew  Fuller,  f  The  same  large, 
heavy,  menacing,  combative,  sombre,  honest 

*  A  Highland  game-keeper,  when  asked  why  a  cer- 
tain terrier,  of  singular  pluck,  was  so  much  more  solemn 
than  the  other  dogs,  said,  "  0,  sir,  life's  full  o'  sairiousness 
to  him, — he  just  never  can  get  enuff  o'  fechtin'." 

f  Fuller  was,  in  early  life,  when  a  fanner  lad  at  So- 
ham,  famous  as  a  boxer ;  not  quarrelsome,  but  not  with- 
out "  the  stern  delight "  a  man  of  strength  and  courage 
feels  in  their  exercise.  Dr.  Charles  Stewart,  of  Dunearn, 
whose  rare  gifts  and  graces  as  a  physician,  a  divine,  a 


14 


KAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 


countenance,  the  same  deep  inevitable  eye, 
the  same  look,— as  of  thunder  asleep,  but 
ready, — neither  a  dog  nor  a  man  to  be  trifled 
with. 

Nest  day,  my  master,  the  surgeon,  exam- 
ined Ailie. "  There  was  no  doubt  it  must  kill 
her,  and  soon.  It  could  be  removed — it  might 
never  return — it  would  give  her  speedy  relief 

she  should  have  it  done.  She  courtesied, 

looked  at  James,  and  said,  "  When  ?"  "To- 
morrow," said  the  kind  surgeon, — a  man  of 
few  words.  She  and  James  and  llab  and  I 
retired.  I  noticed  that  he  and  she  spoke 
little,  but  seemed  to  anticipate  everything  in 
each  other.  The  following  day,  at  noon,  the 
students  came  in,  hurrying  up  the  great  stair. 
At  the  first  landing-place,  on  a  small,  well- 
known  blackboard,  was  a  bit  of  paper  fasten- 
ed by  wafers,  and  many  remains  of  old  wafers 
beside  it.  On  the  paper  were  the  words, — 
"An  operation  to-day.  J.  B.  Clerk." 

Up  ran  the  youths,  eager  to  secure  good 
places :  in  they  crowded,  full  of  interest  and 
talk.  "  What's  the  case?"  "  Which  side  is 
it?" 

Don't  think  them  heartless ;  they  are 
neither  better  nor  worse  than  you  or  I ;  they 
pet  over  their  professional  horrors,  and  into 
their  proper  work, — and  in  them  pity,  as  an 
emotion,  ending  in  itself  or  at  best  in  tears 
and  a  long-drawn  breath,  lessens,  while  pity 
as  a  motive  is  quickened,  and  gains  power  and 
purpose.  It  is  well  for  poor  human  nature 
that  it  is  so. 

The  operating  theatre  is  crowded;  much 
talk  and  fun,  and  all  the  cordiality  and  stir 
of  youth.  The  surgeon  with  his  staff  of  as- 
sistants is  there.  In  comes  Ailic;  one  look 
at  her  quiets  and  abates  the  eager  students. 
That  beautiful  old  woman  is  too  much  for 
them;  they  sit  down,  and  are  dumb,  and 
gaze  at  her.  These  rough  boys  feel  the  power 
of  her  presence.  She  walks  in  quickly,  but 
without  haste  ;  dressed  in  her  mutch,  her 
neckerchief,  her  white  dimity  short-gown, 
her  black  bombazine  petticoat,  showing  her 
white  worsted  stockings  and  her  carpet- 
shoes.  Behind  her  was  James  with  llab. 
James  sat  down  in  the  distance,  and  took  that 
huge  and  noble  head  between  his  knees.  Rab 


scholar,  and  a  gentleman  live  onl.v  in  the  memory  of 
those  few  who  knew  and  survive  him,  liked  to  tell  how 
Mr.  Fuller  used  to  say,  that  when  he  was  in  the  pulpit, 
and  saw  a  ImirMj  man  corns  along  the  passage,  he 
would  instinctively  draw  himself  up,  measure  his  ima- 
ginary antagonist,  and  forecast  how  he  would  deal  with 
him,  his  hands  meanwhile  condensing  into  fists,  and 
tending  to  "squarf."  He  must  have  been  a  hard  hitter 
if  lie  boxed  as  lie  preached, — w  hut  "  The  Fancy  "  would 
call  "an  ugly  customer.  " 


looked  perplexed  and  dangerous;  forever 
cocking  his  ear  and  dropping  it  as  fast. 

Ailie  stepped  up  on  a  seat,  and  laid  her- 
self on  the  table,  as  her  friend  the  surgeon 
told  her  ;  arranged  herself,  gave  a  rapid  look 
at  James,  shut  her  eyes,  rested  herself  on 
me,  and  took  my  hand.  The  operation  was 
at  once  begun  ;  it  was  necessarily  slow  ;  and 
chloroform — one  of  God's  best  gilts  to  his  suf- 
fering children — was  then  unknown.  The 
surgeon  did  his  work.  Ihe  pale  face  showed 
its  pain,  but  was  still  and  silent.  Rab's 
soul  was  working  within  him  ;  he  saw  that 
something  strange  was  going  on, — Hood 
flowing  from  his  mistress,  and  she  suffering ; 
his  ragged  ear  was  up,  and  importunate  ;  he 
growled,  and  gave  now  and  then  a  sharp,  im- 
patient yelp  ;  he  would  have  liked  to  have 
done  something  to  that  man.  But  James  had 
him  firm,  and  gave  him  a  gJower  from  time 
to  time,  and  an  intimation  of  a  possible  kick  ; 
— all  the  better  for  James,  it  kept  his  eye 
and  his  mind  off  Ailie. 

It  is  over :  she  is  dressed,  steps  gently 
and  decently  down  from  the  table,  looks  for 
James  ;  then  turning  to  the  surgeon  and  the 
students,  she  courtesies, — and  in  a  low,  clear 
voice,  begs  their  pardon  if  she  has  behaved 
ill.  The  students — all  of  us — wept  like  chil- 
dren ;  the  surgeon  happed  her  up  carefully, 
— and,  resting  on  James  and  me,  Ailie  went 
to  her  room,  Rab  following.  We  put  her  to 
bed.  James  took  off  his  heavy  shoes,  cram- 
med with  tackets,  heel-capt  and  toe-capt,  and 
put  them  carefully  under  the  table,  say- 
ing, "  Maister  John,  I'm  for  nane  o'  yer 
strange  nurse  bodies  for  Ailie.  I'll  be  her 
nurse,  and  I'll  gang  about  on  my  stockin' 
soles  as  canny  as  pussy."  And  so  he  did  ; 
and  handy  and  clever,  and  swift  and  tender 
as  any  woman,  was  that  horny-handed,  snell, 
peremptory  little  man.  Everything  she  got 
he  gave  her :  he  seldom  slept ;  and  often  I 
saw  his  small  shrewd  eyes  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, fixed  on  her.  As  before,  they  spoke 
little. 

Rab  behaved  well,  never  moving,  showing 
us  how  meek  and  gentle  he  could  be,  and 
occasionally  in  his  sleep,  letting  us  know 
that  he  was  demolishing  some  adversary.  He 
took  a  walk  with  me  every  day,  generally  to 
the  Candlemaker  Row  ;  but  he  was  sombre 
and  mild ;  declined  doing  battle,  though 
some  fit  cases  offered,  and  indeed  submitted 
to  sundry  indignities  ;  and  was  always  very 
ready  to  turn,  and  came  faster  back,  and 
trotted  up  the  stair  with  much  lightness,  and 
went  straight  to  that  door. 

Jess,  the  mare,  had  been  sent,  with  her 
weather-worn  cart,  to  Howgate,  and  had 
doubtless  her  own  dim  and  placid  medita- 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 


tions  and  confusions,  on  the  absence  of  her 
master  and  Kab,  and  her  unnatural  freedom 
from  the  road  and  her  cart. 

For  some  days  Ailie  did  well.  The  wound 
healed  "by  the  first  intention"  ;  for,  as 
James  said,  "Oor  Ailie' s  skin's  ower  clean 
to  beil."  The  students  came  in  quiet  and 
anxious,  and  surrounded  her  bed.  She  said 
she  liked  to  see  their  young,  honest  faces. 
The  surgeon  dressed  her,  and  spoke  to  her  in 
his  own  short,  kind  way,  pitying  her  through 
his  eyes,  Kab  and  James  outside  the  circle, — 
Rab  being  now  reconciled,  and  even  cordial, 
and  having  made  up  his  mind  that  as  yet  no- 
body required  worrying,  but,  as  you  may  sup- 
pose, semper  paratus. 

So  far  well :  but,  four  days  after  the  oper- 
ation, my  patient  had  a  sudden  and  long 
shivering,  a  "groosin1,"  as  she  called  it.  1 
saw  her  soon  after ;  her  eyes  were  too 
bright,  her  cheek  colored  ;  she  was  restless, 
and  ashamed  of  being  so ;  the  balance  was 
lost ;  mischief  had  begun.  On  looking  at 
the  wound,  a  blush  of  red  told  the  secret : 
her  pulse  was  rapid,  her  breathing  anxious 
and  quick,  she  wasn't  herself,  as  she  said, 
and  was  vexed  at  her  restlessness.  We  tried 
what  we  could.  James  did  everything,  was 
everywhere  ;  never  in  the  way,  never  out  of 
it ;  Rab  subsided  under  the  table  into  a  dark 
place,  and  was  motionless,  all  but  his  eye, 
which  followed  everyone.  Ailie  got  worse  ; 
began  to  wander  in  her  mind,  gently  ;  was 
more  demonstrative  in  her  ways  to  James, 
rapid  in  her  questions,  and  sharp  at  times. 
He  was  vexed,  and  said,  "She  was  never 
that  way  afore  ;  no  never."  For  a  time  she 
knew  her  head  was  wrong,  and  Avas  always 
asking  our  pardon, — the  dear,  gentle  old 
woman  :  then  delirium  set  in  strong,  without 
pause.  Her  brain  gave  way,  and  then  came 
that  terrible  spectacle, — 

"  The  intellectual  power,  through  words  and  things, 
Went  sounding  on  its  dim  and  pcrilons  way  "  ; 

she  sang  bits  of  old  songs  and  Psalms-,  stop- 
ping suddenly,  mingling  the  Psalms  of  Da- 
vid and  the  diviner  words  of  his  Son  and 
Lord  with  homely  odds  and  ends  and  scraps 
of  ballads. 

Nothing  more  touching,  or  in  a  sense  more 
strangely  beautiful,  did  1  ever  witness.  Her 
tremulous,  rapid,  affectionate,  eager  Scotch 
voice, — the  swift,  aimless,  bewildered  mind, 
the  baffled  utterance,  the  bright  and  perilous 
eye  ;  some  wild  words,  some  household  cares, 
something  for  James,  the  names  of  the  dead, 
Rab  called  rapidly  and  in  a  "fremyt"  voice, 
and  he  starting  up  surprised,  and  slinking  off 
as  if  he  were  to  blame  somehow,  or  had  been 


dreaming  he  heard  ;  many  eager  questions 
and  beseechings  which  James  and  I  could 
make  nothing  of,  and  on  which  she  seemed 
to  set  her  all,  and  then  sink  back  ununder- 
stood.  It  was  very  sad,  but  better  than 
many  things  that  are  not  called  sad.  James 
hovered  about,  put  out  and  miserable,  but 
active  and  exact  as  ever  ;  read  to  her,  when 
there  was  a  lull,  short  bits  from  the  Psalms, 
prose  and  metre,  chanting  the  latter  in  his 
own  rude  and  serious  way,  showing  great 
knowledge  of  the  fit  words,  bearing  up  like 
a  man,  and  doating  over  her  as  his  "  ain 
Ailie."  "Ailie,  ma  womaii !  "  "Ma  ain 
bonnie  wee  dawtie  !  " 

The  end  was  drawing  on  :  the  golden  bowl 
was  breaking ;  the  silver  cord  was  fast  being 
loosed, — that  animula  blandula,  vagula,  hos- 
pes,  comesque,  was  about  to  flee.  The  body 
and  the  soul — companions  for  sixty  years — 
were  being  sundered,  and  taking  leave.  She 
was  walking  alone  through  the  valley  of  that 
shadow  into  which  one  day  we  must  all  en- 
ter,— and  yet  she  was  not  alone,  for  we  know 
whose  rod  and  staff  were  comforting  her. 

One  night  she  had  fallen  quiet,  and,  as  we 
hoped,  asleep  ;  her  eyes  were  shut.  We  put 
down  the  gas,  and  sat  watching  her.  Sud- 
denly she  sat  up  in  bed,  and  taking  a  bed- 
gown which  was  lying  on  it  rolled  up,  she 
held  it  eagerly  to  her  breast, — to  the  right 
side.  We  could  see  her  eyes  bright  with  a 
surprising  tenderness  and  joy,  bending  over 
this  bundle  of  clothes.  She  held  it  as  a 
woman  holds  her  sucking  child  ;  opening  out 
her  nightgown  impatiently,  and  holding  it 
close,  and  brooding  over  it,  and  murmuring 
foolish  little  words,  as  over  one  whom  his 
mother  comforteth,  and  who  sucks  and  is 
satisfied.  It  was  pitiful  and  strange  to  see 
her  wasted  dying  look,  keen  and  yet  vague, 
— her  immense  love. 

"Preserve  me!"  groaned  James,  giving 
way.  And  then  she  rocked  back  and  for- 
ward, as  if  to  make  it  sleep,  hushing  it,  and 
wasting  on  it  her  infinite  fondness.  "  Wac's 
me,  doctor;  I  declare  she's  thinkin'  it's  that 
bairn."  "  What  bairn ?"  "The  only  bairn 
we  ever  had ;  our  wee  Mysic,  and  she's  in  the 
Kingdom,  forty  years  arid  mair."  It  was 
plainly  true :  the  pain  in  the  breast,  telling 
its  urgent  story  to  a  bewildered,  ruined  brain, 
was  misread  and  mistaken ;  it  suggested  to 
her  the  uneasiness  of  a  breast  full  of  milk, 
and  then  the  child ;  and  so  again  once  more 
they  were  together,  and  she  had  her  ain  wee 
Mysie  in  her  bosom. 

This  was  the  close.  She  sank  rapidly :  the 
delirium  left  her ;  bat,  as  she  whispered,  she 
was  "clean  silly;"  it  was  the  lightening 
before  the  final  darkness.  After  having  for 


16 

some  time  lain  still,  her  eyes  shut,  she  said, 
"  James  !  "  He  came  close  to  her,  and  lifting 
up  her  calm,  clear,  beautiful  eyes,  she  gave 
him  a  long  look,  turned  to  me  kindly  but 
shortly,  looked  for  Rab  but  could  not  see  him, 
then  turned  to  her  husband  again,  as  if  she 
would  never  leave  off  looking,  shut  her  eyes, 
and  composed  herself.  She  lay  for  some  time 
breathing  quick,  and  passed  away  so  gently, 
that  when  we  thought  she  was  gone,  James, 
in  his  old-fashioned  way,  held  the  mirror  to 
her  face.  After  a  long  pause,  one  small  spot 
of  dimness  was  breathed  out ;  it  vanished 
away,  and  never  returned,  leaving  the  blank 
clear  darkness  of  the  mirror  without  a  stain. 
"  What  is  our  life  ?  It  is  even  a  vapor,  which 
appeareth  for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanish- 
eth  away." 

Rab  all  this  time  had  been  full  awake  and 
motionless  ;  he  came  forward  beside  us  : 
Ailie's  hand,  which  James  had  held,  was 
hanging  down  ;  it  was  soaked  with  his  tears ; 
Rab  licked  it  all  over  carefully,  looked  at 
her,  and  returned  to  his  place  under  the 
table. 

James  and  I  sat,  I  don't  know  how  long, 
but  for  some  time,  —  saying  nothing  :  he 
started  up  abruptly,  and  with  some  noise 
went  to  the  table,  and  putting  his  right  fore 
and  middle  fingers  each  into  a  shoe,  pulled 
them  out,  and  put  them  on,  breaking  one  of 
the  leather  latchets,  and  muttering  in  anger, 
"  I  never  did  the  like  o'  that  afore  !  " 

I  believe  he  never  did  ;  nor  after  either. 
"  Rab !  "  he  said  roughly,  and  pointing  with 
his  thumb  to  the  bottom  of  the  bed.  Rab 
leapt  up,  and  settled  himself;  his  head  and 
eye  to  the  dead  face.  "  Maister  John,  ye '11 
wait  for  me,"  said  the  carrier;  and  disap- 
peared in  the  darkness,  thundering  down 
stairs  in  his  heavy  shoes.  I  ran  to  a  front 
window  ;  there  he  was,  already  round  the 
house,  and  out  at  the  gate,  fleeing  like  a 
shadow. 

I  was  afraid  about  him,  and  yet  not  afraid  ; 
so  I  sat  clown  beside  Rab,  and  being  wearied, 
fell  asleep.  I  woke  from  a  sudden  noise  out- 
side. It  was  November,  and  there  had  been 
a  heavy  fall  of  snow.  Rab  was  in  statu  quo ; 
he  heard  the  noise  too,  and  plainly  knew  it, 
but  never  moved.  I  looked  out ;  and  there, 
at  the  gate,  in  the  dim  morning — for  the  sun 
was  not  up — was  Jess  and  the  cart, — a  cloud 
of  steam  rising  from  the  old  mare.  I  did  not 
see  James ;  he  was  already  at  the  door,  and 
came  up  the  stairs,  and  -met  me.  It  was 
less  than 'three  hours  since  he  left,  and  he 

must  have  posted  out — who  knows  how  ? 

to  Howgate,  full  nine  miles  off,  yoked  Jess, 
and  driven  her  astonished  into  town.  He  had 
an  armful  of  blankets,  and  was  streaming 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 


with  perspiration.  He  nodded  to  me,  spread 
out  on  the  floor  two  pairs  of  clean  old  blan- 
kets having  at  their  corners,  "A.  G.,  1794," 
in  large  letters  in  red  worsted.  These  were 
the  initials  of  Alison  Graeme,  and  James  may 
have  looked  in  at  her  from  without, — himself 
unseen  but  not  unthought  of, — when  be  was 
"  wat,  wat,  and  weary,"  and  after  having 
walked  many  a  mile  over  the  hills,  may  have 
seen  her  sitting,  while  "a"  the  lave  were 
sleepin'  ;  "  and  by  the  firelight  working  her 
name  on  the  blankets,  for  her  ain  James's 
bed. 

He  motioned  Rab  down,  and  taking  his 
wife  in  his  arms,  laid  her  in  the  blankets, 
and  happed  her  carefully  and  firmly  up,  leav- 
ing the  face  uncovered  ;  and  then  lifting  her, 
he  nodded  again  sharply  to  me,  and  with  a 
resolved  but  utterly  miserable  face  strode 
along  the  passage  and  down  stairs,  followed 
by  Rab.  I  followed  with  a  light ;  but  he 
didn't  need  it.  I  went  out,  holding  stupidly 
the  candle  in  my  hand  in  the  calm  frosty  air ; 
we  were  soon  at  the  gate.  I  could  have  help- 
ed him,  but  I  saw  he  was  not  to  be  meddled 
with,  and  he  was  strong,  and  did  not  need  it. 
He  laid  her  down  as  tenderly,  as  safely,  as  he 
had  lifted  her  out  ten  days  before, — as  ten- 
derly as  when  he  had  her  first  in  his  arma 
when  she  was  only  "A.  G.," — sorted  her, 
leaving  that  beautiful  sealed  face  open  to  the 
heavens ;  and  then  taking  Jess  by  the  head, 
he  moved  away.  He  did  not  notice  me.  nei- 
ther did  Rab,  who  presided  behind  the  cart. 
I  stood  till  they  passed  through  the  long 
shadow  of  the  College,  and  turned  up  Nicol- 
son  Street.  I  heard  the  solitary  cart  sound 
through  the  streets,  and  die  away  and  come 
again  ;  and  I  returned,  thinking  of  that  com- 
pany going  up  Libberton  Brae,  then  along 
lloslin  Muir,  the  morning  light  touching  the 
Pentlands  and  making  them  like  on-looking 
ghosts  ;  then  down  the  hill  through  Auchin- 
dinny  woods,  past  "  haunted  Woodhouselee ;" 
and  as  daybreak  came  sweeping  up  the  bleak 
Lammermuirs,  and  fell  on  his  own  door,  the 
company  would  stop,  and  James  would  take 
the  key,  and  lift  Ailie  up  again,  laying  her 
on  her  own  bed,  and,  having  put  Jess  up, 
would  return  with  Rab  and  shut  the  door. 

James  buried  his  wife,  with  his  neighbors 
mourning,  Rab  inspecting  the  solemnity  from 
a  distance.  It  was  snow,  and  that  black 
ragged  hole  would  look  strange  in  the  midst 
of  the  swelling  spotless  cushion  of  white. 
James  looked  after  everything ;  then  rather 
suddenly  fell  ill,  and  took  to  bed  ;  was  insen- 
sible when  the  doctor  came,  and  soon  died. 
A  sort  of  low  fever  was  prevailing  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  his  want  of  sleep,  his  exhaustion, 
and  his  misery  made  him  apt  to  take  it.  The 


S.J   Ferris,  Er-gr 


IK  .A  IB, 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE. 


17 


grave  was  not  difficult  to  re-open.  A  fresh 
fall  of  snow  had  again  made  all  things  white 
and  smooth  ;  Rab  once  more  looked  on,  and 
slunk  home  to  the  stable. 

And  what  of  Rab  ?  I  asked  for  him  next 
week  at  the  new  carrier  who  got  the  good- 
will of  James's  business,  and  was  now  master 
of  Jess  and  her  cart.  "How's  Rab?"  He 
put  me  off,  and  said  rather  rudely,  "What's 
your  business  wi'  the  dowg  ?  "  I  was  not  to 
be  so  put  off.  "  Where's  Rab  ?  "  He,  getting 
confused  and  red,  and  intermeddling  with 
his  hair,  said,  "'Deed,  sir,  Rab's  deid." 
"  Dead  !  what  did  he  die  of?  "  "  Weel,  sir," 
said  he,  getting  redder,  "  he  didna  exactly 
dee ;  he  was  killed.  I  had  to  brain  him  wi'  a 
rack-pin ;  there  was  nae  doin'  wi'  him.  He 
lay  in  the  treviss  wi'  the  mear,  and  wadna 
come  oot.  I  tempit  him  wi'  kail  and  meat, 
but  he  wad  tak  naething,  and  keepit  me  frae 
feedin'  the  beast,  and  he  was  aye  gur  gurrin', 
and  grup  gruppin'  me  by  the  legs.  I  was 
laith  to  make  awa  wi'  the  auld  dowg,  his  like 
wasnaatween  this  and  Thornhill — but,  'deed, 
sir,  I  could  do  naething  else."  I  believed 
him.  Fit  end  for  Rab,  quick  and  complete. 
His  teeth  and  his  friends  gone,  why  should 
he  keep  the  peace,  and  be  civil  ? 

JOHN  BROWN,  M.  D. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE. 

A  street  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 
Hue  Neuve  des  petits  Champs  its  name  is^ 

The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields ; 
And  there's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid, 

But  still  in  comfortable  case — 
The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended, 

To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 

This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is — 

A  sort  of  soup,  or  broth,  or  brew 
Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 

That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo; 
Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  muscles,  saffern, 

Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace ; 
All  these  you  eat  at  Terrc's  tavern, 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed  a  rich  and  savory  stew  't  is ; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks, 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 
Kor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting, 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 


I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is  as  before ; 
The  smiling,  red-cheeked  ecaillere  U 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  Terr6  still  alive  and  able  ? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace ; 
He'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table, 

And  hoped  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter;  nothing's  changed  or  older. 

"How's  Monsieur  Terre,  waiter,  pray?" 
The  waiter  stares  and  shrugs  his  shoulder;— 

"  Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day." 
"  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner, 

So  honest  Terra's  run  his  race !" 
"What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner?" 

"  Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse  ?" 

"  Oh,  oui,  Monsieur,"  the  waiter's  answer ; 

"Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il?" 
" Tell  me  a  good  one."    " That  I  can,  sir; 

The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal." 
"  So  Terre's  gone,"  I  say,  and  sink  in 

My  old  accustomed  corner-place ; 
"  He's  done  with  feasting  and  with  drinking, 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse." 

My  old  accustomed  corner  here  is — 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook; 
Ah !  vanished  many  a  busy  year  is, 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took. 
When  first  I  saw  ye,  Cari  Ivoghi. 

I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face, 
And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy 

I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 

Of  early  days,  here  met  to  dine  ? 
Come,  waiter !  quick,  a  flagon  crusty — 

I'll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 

My  memory  can  quick  retrace ; 
Around  the  board  they  take  their  places, 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 

There's  Jack  has  made  a  wondrous  marriage ; 

There's  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet ; 
There's  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage ; 

There's  poor  old  Fred  in  the  Gazette; 
On  James's  head  the  grass  is  growing: 

Good  Lord !  the  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  claret  flowing 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 

Ah  me!  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting  I 
I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's  gone, 

When  here  I'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting, 
In  this  same  place — but  not  alone. 

A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 
A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up. 

And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me. 

— There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 


18 


CURTIS  ON  BURNS'S  STATUE. 


I  drink  it  as  the  Fatre  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes; 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate'er  the  meal  is, 

Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse! 

WILLIAM  M.  THACKERAY. 


CURTIS  ON  THE  DEDICATION  OF  A  STA- 
TUE TO  BURNS. 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS,  American  journalist  and 
author,  born  at  Providence,  R.  I.,  1824.  Educated  partly 
in  America  and  at  the  University  of  Berlin,  he  travelled 
widely  in  1848-50,  writing  "  Kile  Notes  of  an  Hotoadji," 
mid  the  "//onxuT/i  in  Syria."  "The  Potiphar  Papert," 
'•  Prue  and  I,"  and  other  charming  articles  gathered 
1'rom  "  PtUnam'i  Magtizine,'"  are  still  read  for  their  del- 
icate satire  and  refined  literary  skill. 

Mr.  Curtis  has  been  for  many  years  the  editor  of 
"  Harper's  Weekly"  and  author  of  the  papers  styled 
"  TJte  Easy  Chair"  in  "  Harper's  Magazine." 

The  following  noble  address  was  delivered  at  the  un- 
veiling of  the  statue  erected  to  Robert  Burns  in  Central 
Park.  New  York,  on  the  2d  of  October,  1880. 

MR.  CURTIS' 8    ADDRESS. 

The  year  1 759  was  a  proud  year  for  Great 
Britain.  Two  years  before,  amid  universal 
disaster,  Lord  Chesterfield  had  exclaimed, 
"  We  are  no  longer  a  nation."  But  mean- 
while Lord  Chatham  had  restored  to  his 
country  the  scepter  of  the  seas  and  covered 
her  name  with  the  glory  of  continuous  victory. 
The  year  1759  saw  his  greatest  triumphs.  It 
was  the  year  of  Minden,  where  the  French 
Army  was  routed ;  of  Quiberon,  where  the 
French  fleet  was  destroyed  ;  of  the  heights  of 
Abraham,  in  Canada,  where  Wolfe  died  hap- 
py, and  the  dream  of  French  supremacy 
upon  the  American  continent  vanished  for- 
ever. The  triumphant  thunder  of  British 
puns  was  heard  all  around  the  world.  Robert 
('live  was  founding  British  dominion  in 
India;  Boscawen  and  his  fellow-Admirals 
were  sweeping  France  from  the  ocean ;  and 
in  America  Col.  George  Washington  had 
planted  the  British  flag  on  the  fie!9  of  Brad- 
tlock's  defeat.  "  We  are  forced  to  ask  every 
:noriiing  what  victory  there  is,"  said  Horace 
AV.ilpolo,  "  for  fear  of  missing  one." 

But  not  only  in  politics  and  war  was  the 
penius  of  Great  Britain  illustrious.  James 
Watt  was  testing  the  force  of  steam ;  Har- 
preaves  was  inventing  the  spinning-jenny, 
which  ten  years  later  Arkwright  would  com- 
plete, and  Wedgwood  was  making  household 
ware  beautiful.  Fielding's  "Tom  Jones" 


had  been  ten  years  in  print,  and  Gray's 
"  Elegy  "  nine  years.  Dr.  Johnson  had  late- 
ly published  his  Dictionary,  and  Edmund 
Burke  his  essay  on  the  "  Sublime  and  Beau- 
tiful." In  the  year  1759  Garrick  was  the 
first  of  actors,  and  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  of 
painters.  Gibbon  dated  in  this  year  the  pre- 
face of  his  first  work ;  Hume  published  the 
third  and  fourth  volumes  of  his  history  of 
England ;  Robertson  his  history  of  Scotland, 
and  Sterne  came  to  London  to  find  a  pub- 
lisher for  "  Tristram  Shandy."  Oliver  Gold- 
smith, "unfriended,  solitary,"  was  toiling 
for  the  booksellers  in  his  garret  over  Fleet 
Ditch ;  but  four  years  later  with  Burke  and 
Reynolds  and  Garrick  and  Johnson,  he  would 
found  the  most  famous  of  literary  clubs  and 
sell  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  to  save  himself 
from  jail.  It  was  a  year  of  events  decisive  of 
the  course  of  history,  and  of  men  whose  fame 
is  an  illustrious  national  possession.  But 
among  those  events  none  is  more  memorable 
than  the  birth  of  a  son  in  the  poorest  of  Scotch 
homes ;  and  of  all  that  renowned  and  re- 
splendent throng  of  statesmen,  soldiers,  and 
seamen ;  of  philosophers,  poets,  and  inven- 
tors, whose  fame  filled  the  world  with  accla- 
mation, not  one  is  more  gratefully  and  fondly 
remembered  than  the  Ayrshire  ploughman, 
Robert  Burns. 

This  great  assembly  is  in  large  part  com- 
posed of  his  countrymen.  You,  fellow-citi- 
zens, were  mostly  born  in  Scotland.  There 
is  no  more  beautiful  country,  and  as  you 
stand  here,  memory  and  imagination  recall 
your  native  land.  Misty  coasts  and  far- 
stretching  splendors  of  summer  sea ;  solemn 
mountains  and  wind-swept  moors ;  singing 
streams  and  rocky  glens  and  water  falls ; 
lovely  vales  of  Ayr  and  Yarrow,  of  Teviot, 
and  the  Tweed ;  crumbling  ruins  of  ancient 
days,  abbey  and  castle  and  tower ;  legends  of 
romance  gilding  burn  and  brae  with  "  the 
light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land  ;  "  every 
hill  with  its  heroic  tradition,  every  stream 
with  its  story,  every  valley  with  its  song; 
land  of  the  harebell  and  the  mountain  daisy, 
land  of  the  laverock  and  the  curlew,  land  of 
braw  youths  and  sonsie  lasses,  of  a  deep, 
strong,  melancholy  manhood,  of  a  deep,  true, 
tender  womanhood — this  is  your  Scotland, 
this  is  your  native  land.  And  how  could 
you  so  truly  transport  it  to  the  home  of  your 
adoption,  how  interpret  it  to  us  beyond  the 
sea,  so  fully  and  so  fitly,  as  by  this  memorial 
of  the  poet  whose  song  is  Scotland?  No 
wonder  that  you  proudly  bring  his  statue 
and  place  it  here  under  the  American  sun,  in 
the  chief  American  city,  side  by  side  with 
that  of  the  other  great  Scotchman,  whose 
genius  and  fame,  like  the  air  and  the  sun- 


CURTIS  ON  BURNS'S  STATUE. 


19 


shine,  no  local  boundary  can  confine.  In 
this  Walhalla  of  our  various  nationality  it 
will  be  long  before  two  fellow-countrymen 
are  commemorated  whose  genius  is  at  ouce  so 
characteristically  national  and  so  broadly 
universal,  who  speak  so  truly  for  tlieir  own 
countrymen  and  for  all  mankind  as  Walter 
Scott  and  Robert  Burns. 

This  season  of  the  reddening  leaf,  of  sunny 
stillness  and  of  roaring  storm,  especially  be- 
fits this  commemoration,  because  it  was  at 
this  season  that  the  poet  was  peculiarly  in- 
spired, and  because  the  wild  and  tender,  the 
wayward  and  golden-hearted  Autumn  is  the 
best  symbol  of  his  genius.  The  sculptor  has 
imagined  him  in  some  hour  of  pensive  and 
ennobling  meditation,  when  his  soul,  amid  the 
hush  of  evening,  in  the  falling  year,  was  ex- 
alted to  an  ecstasy  of  passionate  yearning 
and  regret ;  and  here,  rapt  in  silence,  just  as 
the  heavenly  melody  is  murmuring  from  his 
lips,  here  he  sits  and  will  sit  forever.  It  was 
in  October  that  Highland  Mary  died.  It  was 
in  October  that  the  hymn  to  Mary  in  Heaven 
was  written.  It  was  in  October,  ever  after- 
ward, that  Burns  was  lost  in  melancholy 
musing  as  the  anniversary  of  her  death  drew 
near.  Yet  within  a  few  days,  while  his  soul 
might  seem  to  have  been  still  lifted  in  that 
sorrowful  prayer,  he  wrote  the  most  rollick- 
ing, resistless,  and  immortal  of  drinking  songs: 

"  0  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'maut, 
And  Bob  and  Allan  cam  to  pree, 

Three  blither  hearts  that  leo  b.ng  night 
Ye  wadna  find  in  Christendlo." 

Here  were  the  two  strains  of  this  marvel- 
ous genius,  and  the  voices  of  the  two  spirits 
that  went  with  him  through  life: 

"  He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 
She  drew  an  angel  down." 

This  was  Burns.  This  was  the  blended 
poet  and  man.  What  sweetness  and  grace  ! 
What  soft,  pathetic,  penetrating  melody,  as  if 
all  the  sadness  of  shaggy  Scotland  had  found 
a  voice  !  What  whispering  witchery  of  love ! 
What  boisterous,  jovial  humor,  excessive, 
daring,  unbridled ! — satire  of  the  kirk,  so 
scorching  and  scornful  that  John  Knox 
might  have  burst  indignant  from  his  grave, 
and  shuddering  ghosts  of  Covenanters  have 
filled  the  mountain  with  a  melancholy  wail. 
A  genius  so  masterful,  a  charm  so  universal, 
that  it  drew  farmers  from  the  fields  when 
his  coming  was  known,  and  men  from  their 
tavern  beds  at  midnight  to  listen  delighted 
until  dawn. 

It  cannot  be  said  of  Burns  that  he  ' '  burst 


his  birth's  invidious  bar.''  He  was  born 
poor,  he  lived  poor,  he  died  poor,  and  ho 
always  felt  his  poverty  to  be  a  curse.  He 
was  fully  conscious  of  himself  and  of  his  in- 
tellectual superiority.  He  disdained  and 
reseated  the  condescension  of  the  great,  and 
he  defiantly  asserted  his  independence.  I  do 
not  say  that  he  might  not  or  ought  not  to 
have  lived  tranquilly  and  happily  as  a  poor 
man.  Perhaps,  as  Carlyle  suggests,  he  should 
have  divided  his  hours  between  poetry  and 
virtuous  industry.  We  only  know  that  he 
did  not.  Like  an  untamable  eagle  he  dashed 
against  the  bars  he  could  not  break,  and  his 
lite  was  a  restless,  stormy  alternation  of  low 
and  lofty  moods,  of  pure  and  exalted  feeling, 
of  mad  revel  and  impotent  regret.  His  pious 
mother  croned  over  his  cradle  snatches  of 
old  ballads  and  legends  of  which  her  mind 
was  full.  His  father,  silent,  austere,  inflexi- 
bly honest,  taught  him  to  read  good  books, 
books  whose  presence  in  his  poor  cottage 
helps  to  explain  the  sturdy  mental  vigor  of 
the  Scotch  peasantry.  But  the  ballads 
charmed  the  boy.  He  could  not  turn  a  tune, 
but  driving  the  cart  or  ploughing  or  digging  in 
the  field,  he  was  still  saying  the  verses  over 
and  over,  his  heart  answering,  like  a  shell 
the  sea,  until,  when  he  was  fifteen,  he  com- 
posed a  song  himself  upon  a  lassie  who  drew 
his  eye  and  heart ;  and  so,  as  he  says,  love 
and  poetry  began  with  him  together. 

For  ten  years  his  life  was  a  tale  of  fer- 
menting youth  :  toiling  and  moiling,  turning 
this  way  and  that,  to  surveying  and  flax 
dressing,  in  the  vain  hope  of  finding  a  fairer 
chance  ;  a  lover  of  all  the  girls  and  the  mas- 
ter of  the  revels  everywhere ;  brightening  the 
long  day  of  peat-cutting  with  the  rattling  fire 
of  wit  that  his  comrades  never  forgot ;  writ- 
ing love-songs,  and  fascinated  by  the  wild 
smuggler  boys  of  Kirkoswald ;  led  by  them 
into  bitter  shame  and  self-reproach,  but  turn- 
ing with  all  the  truculence  of  heady  youth 
upon  his  moral  censors  and  taunting  them 
with  immortal  ridicule.  At  twenty-five,  when 
his  father  was  already  laid  in  Alloway  kirk- 
y c.rd,  the  seed  of  old  national  legend  which  his 
mother  had  dropped  into  his  cradle  began  to 
shoot  into  patriotic  feeling  and  verse,  and 
Burns  became  conscious  of  distinct  poetic 
ambition.  For  two  years  he  followed  the 
plow  and  wrote  some  of  his  noblest  poems. 
But  the  farm  which  he  tilled  with  his  brother 
was  unproductive,  and  at  the  very  time  that 
his  genius  was  most  affluent  his  conduct  was 
most  wayward.  Distracted  by  poetry  and 
poverty  and  passion,  and  brought  to  public 
shame,  he  determined  to  leave  the  country, 
and  in  1780,  when  he  wr.s  twenty-seven 
years  old,  Burns  published  his  poems  by 


CURTIS  ON  BURNS' S  STATUE. 


20 

subscription  to  get  the  money  to  pay  his  pas- 
sage to  America.  Ah  !  could  that  poor,  des- 
perate ploughman  of  Mossgiel  have  foreseen 
this  day,  could  he  have  known  that  because 
of  those  poems,  an  abiding  part  of  literature, 
familiar  to  every  people,  sung  and  repeated 
in  American  homes  from  sea  to  sea,  his  genius 
would  be  honored  and  his  name  blessed  and 
his  statue  raised  with  grateful  pride  to  keep 
his  memory  in  America,  green  forever,  per- 
haps the  amazing  vision  might  have  nerved 
him  to  make  his  life  as  noble  as  his  genius, 
perhaps  the  full  sunshine  of  assured  glory 
might  have  wrought  upon  that  great,  gene- 
rous, wilful  soul  to 

"  Take  a  thought  an'  men'." 

Burns' s  sudden     fame     stayed     him    and 
brought   him    to  Edinburgh  and  its  brilliant 
literary  society.     Hume  was  gone,  but  Adam 
Smith  remained;   Robertson  was  there    and 
Dugald  Stewart.     There,  also,  were  Blacklock 
and  Hugh  Blair  and  Archibald  Alison  ;  Fra- 
ser  Tytler,  and  Adam  Ferguson  and  Henry 
Erskine.       There,    too,    were    the   beautiful 
Duchess  of  Gordon  and  the  truly  noble  Lord 
Glencairn.     They  welcomed  Burns  as  a  prodi- 
gy, but  he  would  not  be  patronized.     Glad  of 
his  fame,  but  proudly  and  aggressively  inde- 
pendent, he  wanders  through  the  stately  city, 
taking  off  his  hat  before  the  house  of  Allan 
Ramsay  and  reverently  kissing  Robert  Fer- 
guson's grave,  his  "  elder  brother  in   misfor- 
tune," as  Burns  called  him.     He  goes  to  the 
great  houses,  and  although  they  did  not  know 
it,  he  was  the  greatest  guest  they  had  ever  en- 
tertained, the  greatest  poet  that  then  or  ever 
walked  the  streets  of  Edinburgh.  His  famous 
hosts  were   all    Scotchmen,  but  he   was   the 
only     Scotchman    among    them    who     had 
written  in   the  dialect  of  his   country,  and 
who  had  become  famous  without  ceasing  to 
be  Scotch.     But  one  day  there  stole  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  Burns  stood,  a  boy  of  fif- 
teen, who  was  presently  to  eclipse  all  Scottish 
fame  but  that  of  Burns  himself.     The  poet 
was   looking  at  an    engraving  of    a  soldier 
lying    frozen    in    the     snow,  under    which 
were  some  touching  lines,  and   as   he   read 
them,  Burns,  with  his  eyes  full  of  tears,  asked 
who  wrote  them.     None  of  the  distinguished 
company  could  tell  him,  but  the  young  boy. 
Walter  Scott,  timidly  whispered  the  name  of 
the  author,  and  he  never  forgot  that  Burn; 
turned  upon  him  his  full,  dark,  tearful  eyes 
— eyes  which  Scott  called  the  most  glorious 
imaginable,  and  thanked  him.     Scott  never 
saw  Burns  again. 

The  dazzling  Edinburgh  days  were  a  glar- 
ing social  contrast  to  the  rest  of  his  life.   The 


brilliant  society  flattered  him,  but  his  bril- 
iancy  outshone  its  own.  He  was  wiser  than 
he  learned,  wittier  than  the  gayest,  and  more 
lourtcous  than  the  courtliest.  His  genius 
flashed  and  blazed  like  a  torch  among  the  ta- 
)ers,  and  the  well-ordered  company,  en- 
.hralled  by  the  surprising  guest,  winced  and 
wondered.  If  the  host  was  condescending, 
he  guest  was  never  obsequious.  But  Burns 
did  not  love  a  lord,  and  he  chafed  indignantly 
at  the  subtle  but  invincible  lines  of  social  dis- 
.inction,  feeling  too  surely  that  the  realm  of 
eisure  and  ease,  a  sphere  in  which  he  knew 
himself  to  be  naturally  master,  must  always 
float  beyond,  beyond — the  alluring  glimmer 
of  a  mirage.  A  thousand  times  wistfully 
watching  this  fascinating  human  figure  amid 
the  sharp  vicissitudes  of  his  life,  from  Foode 
Nansie's  ale-house  in  Mauchline  to  the  state- 
ly drawing-room  of  Gordon  Castle,  with  all 
liis  royal  manhood  and  magnificent  capability 
entangled  and  confused  ;  the  heart  longs,  but 
longs  in  vain,  to  hear  the  one  exulting  and 
triumphant  cry  of  the  strong  man  coming  to 
himself,  "  I  will  rise." 

But  with  all  his  gifts,  that  was  not  given 
him.  Burns  left  Edinburgh  to  wander  about 
his  bonnie  Scotland,  his  mind  full  of  its  his- 
toric tradition  and  legendary  lore,  and  begin- 
ning to  overflow  with  songs  born  of  the  na- 
tional melodies.  He  was  to  see,  and  he 
wished  to  see  no  other  land.  His  heart  beat 
toward  it  with  an  affectionate  fidelity,  as  if  he 
felt  that  somehow  its  destiny  were  reflected 
in  his  own.  At  Coldstream,  where  the  Tweed 
divides  Scotland  from  England,  he  went 
across  the  river,  but  as  he  touched  the  Eng- 
lish soil  he  turned,  fell  upon  his  knees, 
stretched  out  his  arms  to  Scotland,  and  prayed 
God  to  bless  his  native  land. 

His  wanderings  ended,  Burns  settled  at 
twenty-nine  upon  the  pleasant  farm  of  Ellis- 
land,  in  Nithsdalc,  over  the  hills  from  his 
native  Ayrshire. 

"  To  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 
For  weans  and  wife." 

Here  his  life  began  happily.  He  managed 
the  farm,  started  a  parish  library,  went  to 
church,  and  was  proud  of  the  regard  of  his 
neighbors.  He  was  honored  and  sought  by 
travellers,  and  his  genius  was  in  perfect  tune. 
"Tarn  O'Shanter,"  and  "Bonnie  Doon," 
the  songs  of  "  Highland  Mary,"  "John  An- 
derson my  Joe,"  and  "AuldLang  Syne," 
are  all  flowers  of  Ellisland.  But  he  could 
not  be  farmer,  gaugcr,  poet,  and  prince  of 
good  fellows  all  at  once.  The  cloud  darkened 
that  was  never  to  be  lifted.  The  pleasant 
farm  at  Ellisland  failed,  and  Burns,  selling 


CURTIS  ON  BURNS' S  STATUE. 


all  his  stock  and  crops  and  tools,  withdrew 
to  Dumfries.  It  was  the  last  change  of  his  life, 
and  melancholy  were  the  days  that  followed, 
but  radiant  with  the  keen  flashes  and  tender 
gleams  of  the  highest  poetic  genius  of  the 
time.  Writing  exquisite  songs,  often  lost  in 
the  unworthiest  companionship,  consumed 
with  self-reproach,  but  regular  in  his  official 
duties ;  teaching  his  boy  to  love  the  great 
English  poets,  from  Shakespeare  to  Gray, 
seeking  pleasure  at  any  cost,  conscious  of  a 
pity  and  a  censure  at  which  he  could  not 
wonder,  but  conscious  also  of  the  inexpressi- 
ble tragedy  which  pity  and  censure  could  not 
know  nor  comprehend,  and  through  evil  re- 
port and  good  report  the  same  commanding 
and  noble  nature  that  we  know,  Burns  in 
these  last  dark  days  of  Dumfries  is  like  a 
stately  ship  in  a  tempest  with  all  her  canvass 
spread,  with  far-flying  streamers  and  glanc- 
ing lights  and  music  penetrating  the  storm, 
drifting  helpless  on  the  cruel  rocks  of  a  lee 
shore.  One  summer  evening  toward  the  end, 
as  a  young  man  roie  into  Dumfries  to  attend 
a  ball,  he  saw  Burns  loitering  along  on  one 
side  of  the  street,  while  the  other  was  thronged 
with  gay  gentlemen  and  ladies,  not  one  of 
whom  cared  to  greet  the  poet.  The  young 
man  instantly  dismounted,  and,  joining  Burns, 
asked  him  to  cross  the  street.  "  Nay,  nay, 
my  young  friend,  that's  all  over  now  ;"  and 
then  in  a  low,  soft,  mournful  voice  Burns  re- 
peated the  old  ballad : 

"  His  bonnet  stood  ance  fu'  fair  on  his  brow, 
His  auld  aiio  looked  better  than  mony  ane',3  new, 
But  now  he  lets  't  wear  ony  way  it  will  hing, 
And  exists  himself  dowie  upon  the  corn-bins. 

Oh  were  \ve  young  as  we  ance  hae  been, 
We  guld  hao  been  galloping  down  on  yon  green, 
And  linking  it  owro  the  lillie-white  lea, 
And  werena  my  heart  light  it  wad  dee." 

Five  years  of  letting  his  life  "  wear  ony 
way  it  would  hing "  and  Burns's  life  w.is 
ended  in  1796,  in  his  thirty-seventh  year. 
There  was  an  outburst  of  universal  sorrow. 
A  great  multitude  crowded  the  little  town  at 
his  burial.  Memorials,  monuments,  biogra- 
phies of  every  kind  followed.  Poets  ever 
since  have  sung  of  him  as  of  no  other  poet. 
The  theme  is  always  fresh  and  always  capti- 
vating, and  within  the  year  our  own  Ameri- 
can poet,  beloved  and  honored  in  his  be.iuti- 
ful  and  unwasted  age,  sings  of  Burns  as  he 
S3es  him  in  vision,  as  the  world  shall  forever 
see  him,  an  immortal ' youth  cheerily  singing 
at  his  toil  in  the  bright  Spring  morning. 

The  personal  feeling  of  Longfellow's  poem 
is  that  which  Burns  always  inspires.  There 


is  no  great  poet  who  is  less  of  a  mere  name 
and  abstraction.  His  grasp  is  so  human  that 
the  heart  insists  upon  knowing  the  story  of 
his  life,  and  ponders  it  with  endless  sympa- 
thy arid  wonder.  It  is  not  necessary  to  ex- 
cuse or  conceal.  The  key  of  Burns's  life  is 
the  struggle  of  a  shrinking  will  tossed  be- 
tween great  extremes,  between  poetic  genius 
and  sensibility,  intellectual  force,  tenderness, 
conscience,  and  generous  sympathies  on  on» 
side  and  tremendous  passions  upon  the  other. 
We  cannot,  indeed,  know  the  power  of  the 
temptation.  We  cannot  pretend  to  determine 
the  limits  of  responsibility  for  infirmity  of 
will.  We  only  know  that  however  supreme 
and  resistless  the  genius  of  a  man  may  be  it 
does  not  absolve  him  from  the  moral  obliga- 
tion that  binds  us  all.  It  would  not  have 
comforted  Jeanie  Deans  as  she  held  the  sor- 
rowing Effie  to  her  heart  to  know  that  the 
"fause  lover"  who  "staw"  her  rose  was 
named  Shakespeare  or  Burns.  Nor  is  there 
any  baser  prostitution  than  that  which  would 
grace  self-indulgence  with  an  immortal  name. 
If  a  boy  is  a  dunce  at  school  it  is  a  foolish 
parent  who  consoles  himself  with  remember- 
ing that  Walter  Scott  was  a  dull  school-boy. 
It  was  not  Scott's  dullness  that  made  him  the 
magician.  It  is  not  the  reveling  at  Poosie 
Nansie's  and  the  Globe  Tavern,  and  the  reck- 
less life  at  Mauchline  and  Mossgiel  that  en- 
deared Robert  Burns  to  mankind.  Just 
there  is  the  mournful  tragedy  of  his  story. 
Just  there  lies  its  pathetic  appeal.  The 
young  man  who  would  gild  his  dissipation 
with  the  celestial  glamour  of  Burns's  name 
snatches  the  glory  of  a  star  to  light  him  to 
destruction.  But  it  is  no  less  true,  and  in, 
the  deepest  and  fullest  meaning  of  his  own 
words, 

"  What's  done  we  partly  may  compute 
But  know  not  what's  resisted." 

"  Except  for  grace,"  said  Bunyan,  "  I  should 
have  been  yonder  sinner."  "  Granted,"  says 
Burns's  brother  man  and  brother  Scot, 
Thomas  Carlyle,  in  the  noblest  plea  that  ono 
man  of  genius  ever  made  for  another,  "  Grant- 
ed the  ship  comes  into  harbor  with  shroud 
and  tickle  damaged,  and  the  pilot  is  there- 
fore blameworthy,  for  he  has  not  been  all- 
wise  and  all-powerful ;  but  to  know  how 
blarne-worthy,  tell  us  first  whether  his  voy- 
age has  been  round  the  globe  or  only  to 
llamsgate  and  the  Isle  of  Dogs." 

But  we  unveil  to-day  and  set  here  for  per- 
petual contemplation,  not  the  monument  of 
the  citizen  at  whom  respectable  Dumfries 
looked  askance,  but  the  statue  of  a  grervt 
poet.  Once  more  we  recognize  that  no  gift 


22 


CURTIS  ON  BURNS' S  STATUE. 


is  more  divine  than  his,  that  no  influence  is 
more  profound,  that  no  human  being  is  a 
truer  benefactor  of  his  kind.  The  spiritual 
power  of  poetry,  indeed,  like  that  of  natural 
beauty,  is  immeasurable,  and  it  is  not  easy  to 
define  and  describe  Burns' s  service  to  the 
world.  But  without  critical  and  careful  de- 
tail of  observation,  it  is  plain,  first  of  all,  that 
he  interpreted  Scotland  as  no  other  country 
has  been  revealed  by  a  kindred  genius.  Were 
Scotland  suddenly  submerged  and  her  people 
swept  away,  the  tale  of  her  politics  and  kings 
and  great  events  would  survive  in  histories.  But 
essentially  Scotland,  the  customs,  legends,  su- 
perstition, language,  age,  the  grotesque  humor, 
the  keen  sagacity,  the  simple  serious  faith,  the 
characteristic  spirit  of  the  national  life  caught 
up  and  preserved  in  the  sympathy  of  poetic 
genius,  would  live  forever  in  the  poet's  verse. 
The  sun  of  Scotland  sparkles  in  it ;  the  birds 
of  Scotland  sing ;  its  breezes  rustle,  its  wa- 
ters murmur.  Each  "  timorous  wee  beastie," 
the  "ourie  cattle,"  and  the  "sillie  sheep,"  are 
softly  penned  and  gathered  in  this  all-em- 
bracing fold  of  song.  Over  the  dauntless 
battle  hymn  of  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace 
bled"  rises  the  solemn  music  of  the  "Cot- 
ter's Saturday  Night."  Through  the  weird 
witch  romance  of  "Tarn  O'Shanter"  breathes 
the  scent  of  the  wild  rose  of  Alloway,  and 
the  daring  and  astonishing  Babel  of  the  "  Jol- 
ly Beggars ' '  is  penetrated  by  the  heart- 
breaking sigh  to  Jessie : 

"  Although  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Although  even  hope  is  denied, 
Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing 
Than  aught  in  the  world  hcside." 

The  poet  touches  every  scene  and  sound, 
every  thought  and  feeling,  but  the  refrain  of 
all  is  Scotland.  To  what  other  man  was  it 
ever  given  so  to  transfigure  the  country  of 
his  birth  and  love  ?  Every  bird  and  flower, 
every  hill  and  dale  and  river,  whisper  and 
repeat  his  name,  and  the  word  Scotland  is 
sweeter  because  of  Robert  Burns. 

But  in  thus  casting  a  poetic  spell  upon 
everything  distinctively  Scotch,  Burns  fos- 
tered a  patriotism  which  has  become  proverb- 
ial. The  latest  historian  of  England  says 
that  at  the  time  of  Burns's  birth  England 
•was  mad  with  hatred  of  the  Scots.  But 
when  Burns  died  there  was  not  a  Scotchman 
who  was  not  proud  of  being  a  Scotchman. 
A  Scotch  ploughman  singing  of  his  fellow  peas- 
ants and  their  lives  and  loves  in  their  own 
language,  had  given  them  in  their  own  eyes 
a  dignity  they  had  never  known : 

"  A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that." 
And  America  is  trying  to  make  the  plough- 


man's words  true.  Great  poets  before  and 
alter  Burns  have  been  honored  by  their 
countries  and  by  the  world  ;  but  is  there 
any  great  poet  of  any  time  or  country  who 
has  so  taken  the  heart  of  what  our  Abraham 
Lincoln,  himself  one  of  them,  called  the  plain 
people,  that,  as  was  lately  seen  in  Edinburgh, 
when  he  had  been  dead  nearly  a  hundred 
years,  workmen  going  home  from  work  beg- 
ged to  look  upon  his  statue  for  the  love  and 
honor  they  bore  to  Robbie  Burns  ?  They 
love  him  for  their  land's  sake,  and  they  are 
better  Scotchmen  because  of  him.  England 
does  not  love  Shakespeare,  nor  Italy  Dante, 
nor  Germany  Goethe,  with  the  passionate  ar- 
dor with  which  Scotland  loves  Burns.  It  is 
no  wonder,  for  here  is  Auld  Scotia's  thistle 
bloomed  out  into  a  flower  so  fair  that  its 
beauty  and  perfume  fill  the  world  with  joy. 
But  the  power  thus  to  depict  national  life 
and  character  and  thus  to  kindle  an  imper- 
ishable patriotism  cannot  be  limited  by  any 
nationality  or  country.  In  setting  words  to 
Scotch  melodies  Burns  turns  to  music  the 
emotions  common  to  humanity,  and  so  he 
passes  from  the  exclusive  love  of  Scotland 
into  the  reverence  of  the  world.  Burns  died 
at  the  same  age  with  Raphael ;  and  Mo- 
zart, who  was  his  contemporary,  died  only 
four  years  before  him.  Raphael  and  Mozart 
are  the  two  men  of  lyrical  genius  in  kindred 
arts  who  impress  us  as  most  exquisitely  re- 
fined by  careful  cultivation  ;  and  although 
Burns  was  of  all  great  poets  the  most  un- 
schooled, he  belonged  in  poetry  with  Raphael 
in  painting  and  Mozart  in  music,  and  there 
is  no  fourth.  An  indescribable  richness  and 
flower-like  quality,  a  melodious  grace  and 
completeness  and  delicacy,  belong  to  them 
all.  Looking  upon  a  beautiful  human  Ma- 
donna of  Raphael,  we  seem  to  hear  the  rip- 
pling cadence  of  Mozart  and  the  tender  and 
true  songs  of  Burns.  They  are  all  voices  of 
the  whole  world  speaking  in  the  accent  of  a 
native  land.  Here  are  Italy  and  Germany 
and  Scotland,  distinct,  individual,  perfectly 
recognizable,  but  the  sun  that  reveals  and  il- 
luminates their  separate  charm,  that  is  not 
Italian  or  German  or  Scotch,  it  is  the  sun  of 
universal  nature.  This  is  the  singer  whom 
this  statue  commemorates,  the  singer  of 
songs  immortal  as  love,  pure  as  the  dew  ot 
the  morning,  and  sweet  as  its  breath  ;  songs 
with  which  the  lover  wooes  his  bride  and  the 
mother  soothes  her  child,  and  the  heart  of  a 
people  beats  with  patriotic  exultation  ;  songs 
that  cheer  human  endeavor  and  console  hu- 
man sorrow  and  exalt  human  life.  We  can- 
not find  out  the  secret  of  their  power.  Until 
we  know  why  the  rose  is  sweet,  or  the  dew- 
drop  pure,  or  the  rainbow  beautiful,  we  can- 


ODE  TO  BURNS. 


not  know  why  the  poet  is  the  best  benefactor 
of  humanity.  Whether  because  he  reveals  us 
to  ourselves,  or  because  he  touches  the  soul 
with  the  fervor  of  divine  aspiration,  whether 
because  in  a  world  of  sordid  and  restless  anx- 
iety he  fills  us  with  serene  joy,  or  puts  into 
rhythmic  and  permanent  form  the  best 
thoughts  and  hopes  of  man — who  shall  say  ? 
But  none  the  less  is  the  heart's  instinctive 
loyalty  to  the  poet  the  proof  of  its  conscious- 
ness that  he  does  all  these  things,  that  he  is 
the  harmonizer,  strengthener,  and  consoler. 
How  the  faith  of  Christendom  has  been  staid 
for  centuries  upon  the  mighty  words  of  the 
old  Hebrew  bards  and  prophets,  and  how  the 
vast  and  inexpressible  mystery  of  divine  love 
and  power  and  purpose  has  been  best  breath- 
ed in  parable  and  poem !  If  we  were  forced 
to  surrender  every  expression  of  human  ge- 
nius but  one,  surely  we  should  retain  poetry  ; 
and  if  we  were  called  to  lose  from  the  vast 
accumulation  of  literature  all  but  a  score  of 
books,  among  that  choice  and  perfect  remain- 
der would  be  the  songs  of  Burns. 

How  fitly,  then,  among  the  memorials  of 
great  men,  of  those  who  in  different  countries 
and  times  and  ways  have  been  leaders  of 
mankind,  we  raise  this  statue  of  the  poet 
whose  genius  is  an  unconscious  but  sweet 
and  elevating  influence  in  our  national  life. 
It  is  not  a  power  dramatic,  obvious,  imposing, 
immediate,  like  that  of  the  statesman,  the 
warrior,  and  the  inventor,  but  it  is  as  deep 
and  strong  and  abiding.  The  soldier  fights 
for  his  native  land,  but  the  poet  touches  that 
land  with  the  charm  that  makes  it  worth 
fighting  for,  and  fires  the  warrior's  heart 
with  the  fierce  energy  that  makes  his  blow 
invincible.  The  statesman  enlarges  and  or- 
ders liberty  in  the  State,  but  the  poet  fosters 
the  love  of  liberty  in  the  heart  of  the  citizen. 
The  inventor  multiplies  the  facilities  of  life, 
but  the  poet  makes  life  better  worth  living. 
Here,  then,  among  trees  and  flowers  and 
waters  ;  here  upon  the  green  sward  and  un- 
der the  open  sky  ;  here  where  birds  carol, 
and  children  play,  and  lovers  whisper,  and 
the  various  stream  of  human  life  flows  by — 
we  raise  the  statue  of  Robert  Burns.  While 
the  human  heart  beats  that  name  will  be 
music  in  human  ears.  He  knew  better  than 
we  the  pathos  of  human  life.  We  know  bet- 
ter than  he  the  infinite  pathos  of  his  own. 
Ah !  Robert  Burns,  Robert  Burns,  whoever 
lingers  here  as  he  passes  and  muses  upon 
your  statue  will  see  in  imagination  a  solitary 
mountain  in  your  own  beautiful  Scotland, 
heaven-soaring,  wrapped  in  impenetrable 
clouds.  Suddenly  the  mists  part  and  there 
are  the  heather,  the  brier-rose,  and  the  gow- 
an  fine,  there  are  the 


Burnies,  wimplin'  down  your  glens 
Wi'  toddlin'  din, 

Or  foaming  strang,  wi'  hasty  stens 
Frae  lin  to  lin  ; 

the  cushat  is  moaning ;  the  curlew  is  calling  ; 
the  plover  is  singing  ;  the  red  deer  is  bound- 
ing ;  and  look !  the  clouds  roll  utterly  away 
and  the  clear  summit  is  touched  with  the 
tender  glory  of  sunshine,  heaven's  own  bene- 
diction. 


THE   PRIZE   ODE   ON   THE  CENTENARY 
OF  BURNS. 

LONDON,  25  JANUARY,  1859. 

We  hail,  this  morn, 
A  century's  noblest  birth ; 

A  Poet  peasant-born, 
Who  more  of  Fume's  immortal  dower 
Unto  his  country  brings, 
Than  all  her  Kings! 

As  lamps  high  set 
Upon  some  earthly  eminence, — 
And  to  the  gazer  brighter  thence 
Than  the  sphere-lights  they  flout, — 

Dwindle  in  distance  and  die  out, 

AVhile  no  star  waneth  yet ; 
80  through  the  past's  far-reaching  night, 
Only  the  star-souls  keep  their  light. 

A  gentle  boy, — 
With  moods  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 

Quick  tears  and  sudden  joy, — 
Grew  up  beside  the  peasant's  hearth. 

His  father's  toil  he  shares; 

But  half  his  mother's  cares 

From  his  dark  searching  eyes, 
Too  swift  to  sympathize, 

Hid  in  her  heart  she  bears. 

At  early  morn, 

His  father  calls  him  to  the  field; 
Through  the  stiff  soil  that  clogs  his  feet, 

Chill  rain,  and  harvest  heat, 
He  plods  all  day ;  returns  at  eve  outworn, 

To  the  rude  fare  a  peasant's  lot  doth  yield;—    "- 
To  what  else  was  he  born? 

The  God-made  King 

Of  every  living  thing; 

(For  his  great  heart  in  love  could  hold  them  all  -J 
The  dumb  eyes  meeting  his  by  hearth  and  stall,— 

Gifted  to  understand  !— 

Knew  it  and  sought  his  hand : 
And  the  most  timorous  creature  had  not  fled, 

Could  she  his  heart  have  read, 
Which  fain  all  feeble  things  had  blessed  and 

sheltered. 


PROCTOR  KNOTTS  DULUTH  SPEECH. 


To  Nature's  feast, — 
Who  knew  her  noblest  guest 
And  entertained  him  best, — 
Kingly  he  came.     Her  chambers  of  the  east 
She  draped  with  crimson  and  with  gold, 
And  poured  her  pure  joy -wines 
For  him  the  poet-souled. 
For  him  her  anthem  rolled, 
From  the  storm-wind  among  the  winter  pines, 

Down  to  the  slenderest  note 
Of  a  love-warble  from  the  linnet's  throat. 

But  when  begins 

The  array  for  battle,  and  the  trumpet  blows 
A  King  must  leave  the  feast,  and  lead  the  fight 

And  with  its  mortal  foes, — 
Grim  gathering  hosts  of  sorrows  and  of  sins, — 

Each  human  soul  must  close. 

And  Fame  her  trumpet  blew 
Before  him ;  wrapped  him  in  her  purple  state ; 
And  made  him  mark  for  all  the  shafts  of  Fate, 

That  henceforth  round  him  flew. 

Though  he  may  yield 
Hard-pressed,  and  wounded  fall 
Forsaken  on  the  field ; 
His  regal  vestments  soiled ; 
His  crown  of  half  its  jewels  spoiled ; 
He  is  a  King  for  all. 
Had  he  but  stood  aloof ! 
Had  he  arrayed  himself  in  armour  proof 

Against  temptation's  darts? 
So  yearn  the  good ;— so  those  the  world  calls  wia», 
With  vain  presumptuous  hearts, 
Triumphant  moralize. 

Of  martyr-woe 
A  sacred  shadow  on  his  memory  rests; 

Tears  have  not  ceased  to  flow ; 
Indignant  grief  yet  stirs  impetuous  breasts, 

To  think, — above  that  noble  soul  brought  low, 
That  wise  and  soaring  spirit  fooled,  enslaved, — 

Thus,  thus  he  had  been  saved ! 

It  might  not  be! 
That  heart  of  harmony 
Had  been  too  rudely  rent : 
Its  silver  chords,  which  any  hand  could  wound, 

By  no  hand  could  be  tuned, 
Save  by  the  Maker  of  the  instrument, 

Its  every  string  who  knew, 
And  from  profaning  touch  His  heavenly  gift 
withdrew. 

Regretful  love 

His  country  fain  would  prove, 
By  grateful  honours  lavished  on  his  grave; 

Would  fain  redeem  her  blame 
That  He  so  little  at  her  hands  can  claim, 

Who  unrewarded  gave 
To  her  his  life-bought  gift  of  song  and  fame. 


The  land  he  trod 

Hath  now  become  a  place  of  pilgrimage ; 
Where  dearer  are  the  daisies  of  the  sod 
That  could  his  song  engage. 

The  hoary  hawthorn,  wreathed 
Above  the  bank  on  which  his  limbs'ht  flung 
While  some  sweet  plaint  he  breathed; 
The  streams  he  wandered  near; 
The  maidens  whom  he  loved ;  the  songs  he  sung  ;— 
All,  all  are  dear! 

The  arch  blue  eyes, — 
Arch  but  for  love's  disguise, — 
Of  Scotland's  daughters,  soften  at  his  strain; 
Her  hardy  sous,  sent  forth  across  the  main 
To  drive  the  ploughshare  through  earth's  virgin 
soils, 

Lighten  with  it  their  toils ; 
And  sister-lands  have  learn'd  to  love  the  tougue 
In  which  such  songs  are  sung. 

For  doth  not  Song 

To  the  whole  world  belong? 
Is  it  not  given  wherever  tears  can  fall, 
Wherever  hearts  can  melt,  or  blushes  glow, 
Or  mirth  and  sadness  mingle  as  they  flow, 

A  heritage  to  all? 

ISA  CRAIG  KNOX. 


SPEECH  OF  HON.   J.  PROCTOR  KSOTT, 

OF  KENTUCKY. 

In  the  House  of  Representatives,   January  27, 
1871. 

J.  PROCTOR  KXOTT,  born  in  Kentucky,  1830,  became 
attorney-general  of  Missouri,  afterward  Representative 
in  Congress  from  Kentucky,  and  Chairman  of  the  Com- 
mittee on  the  Judiciary.  He  possesses  remarkable  talent 
for  humor,  and  for  caricature  in  graphic  art,  both  of 
which  are  the  diversions  of  a  mind  engrossed  in  the 
serious  business  of  the  law,  and  political  affairs. 

[THE  immediate  occasion  of  the  following  speech  was 
the  pressure  upon  the  House  of  Representatives  of  a  bill 
which  had  passed  the  Senate,  extending  the  time  to  con- 
struct a  railroad  from  the  St.  Croix  River  to  Lake  Superior 
at  Duluth,  Minn,  and  to  BayfieULWisconsin".  The  former 
grant  of  land  by  Congress  having  lapsed  by  the  failure 
of  the  railroad  company  to  build  the  railway  within  the 
five  years  stipulated,  it  came  before  Congress  in  1871  for 
a  renewal  of  the  enormous  free  grant  of  the  public  lands, 
amounting  to  1,418,451  acres.  The  bill  was  pressed  by 
zealous  and  interested  members  on  the  floor  of  the  House, 
and  by  a  powerful  lobby  from  the  outside.  Besides  this 
the  bill  stood  as  a  representative  measure,  and  a  test 
question  as  to  the  disposition  of  Congress  to  make  or  to 
renew  subsidies  in  land  for  the  benefit  of  private  corpo- 
rations. The  Senate  passed  the  bill  without  difficulty, 
but  in  the  House,  after  the  exposures  of  the  monstrous 
land  grants  already  made,  and  after  Mr.  Knott  of  Ken- 


PROCTOR  KNOTT'S  DULDTH  SPEECH. 


25 


tuofry  had  covered  with  ridicule  the  whole  scheme  for 
the  aggrandizement  of  Duluth,  the  bill  was  defeated  by 
a  decisive  majority.  It  put  an  effectual  quietus  upon  all 
land  grants  from  that  day  to  this.] 

Mr.  SPEAKER  : — If  I  could  be  actuated  by 
any  conceivable  inducement  to  betray  the 
sacred  trust  reposed  in  me  by  those  to  whose 
generous  confidence  I  am  indebted  for  the 
honor  of  a  seat  on  this  floor :  if  I  could  be 
influenced  by  any  possible  consideration  to 
become  instrumental  in  giving  away,  in  vio- 
lation of  their  known  wishes,  any  portion  of 
their  interest  in  the  public  domain  for  the 
mere  promotion  of  any  railroad  enterprise 
whatever,  I  should  certainly  feel  a  strong  in- 
clination to  give  this  measure  my  most  earn- 
est and  hearty  support ;  for  I  am  assured  that 
its  success  would  materially  enhance  the  pe- 
cuniary prosperity  of  some  of  the  most  valued 
friends  I  have  on  earth :  friends  for  whose 
accommodation  I  would  be  willing  to  make 
almost  any  sacrifice  not  involving  my  person- 
al honor  or  my  fidelity  as  the  trustee  of  an 
expressed  trust.  And  that  fact  of  itself  would 
be  sufficient  to  countervail  almost  any  objec- 
tion I  might  entertain  to  the  passage  of  this 
bill  not  inspired  by  an  imperative  and  inex- 
orable sense  of  public  duty. 

Now,  sir,  I  have  been  satisfied  for  years 
that  if  there  was  any  portion  of  the  inhabited 
globe  absolutely  in  a  suffering  condition  for 
want  of  a  railroad  it  was  these  teeming  pine 
barrens  of  the  St.  Croix.  At  what  particular 
point  on  that  noble  stream  such  a  road  should 
be  commenced  I  knew  was  immaterial,  and  so 
it  seems  to  have  been  considered  by  the 
draughtsman  of  this  bill.  It  might  be  up  at 
the  spring  or  down  at  the  foot-log,  or  the 
water-gate,  or  the  fish-dam,  or  anywhere 
along  the  bank,  no  matter  where.  But  in 
what  direction  should  it  run,  or  where  it 
should  terminate,  were  always  to  my  mind 
questions  of  the  most  painful  perplexity.  I 
could  conceive  of  no  place  on  "God's  green 
earth"  in  such  straitened  circumstances  for 
railroad  facilities  as  to  be  likely  to  desire  or 
willing  to  accept  such  a  connection.  I  knew 
that  neither  Bayfield  nor  Superior  City  would 
have  it,  for  they  both  indignantly  spurned  the 
munificence  of  the  Government  when  coupled 
with  such  ignominious  conditions,  and  let  this 
very  same  land  grant  die  on  their  hands 
years  and  years  ago  rather  than  submit  to 
the  degradation  of  a  direct  communication  by 
railroad  with  the  piney  woods  of  the  St.  Croix  ; 
and  I  knew  that  what  the  enterprising  inhabi- 
tants of  those  giant  young  cities  would  refuse 
to  take  would  have  few  charms  for  others, 
whatever  their  necessities  or  cupidity  might 
be. 


Hence,  as  I  said,  sir,  I  was  utterly  at  a  loss 
to  determine  where  the  terminus  of  this  great 
and  indispensable  road  should  be,  until  I  ac- 
cidentally overheard  some  gentleman  the 
other  day  mention  the  name  of  "Duluth." 
Duluth  !  The  word  fell  upon  my  ear  with  pe- 
culiar and  indescribable  charm,  like  the  gen 
tie  murmur  of  a  low  fountain  stealing  forth  in 
the  midst  of  roses,  or  the  soft,  sweet  accents 
of  an  angel's  whisper,  in  the  bright  joyous 
dream  of  sleeping  innocence.  Duluth  !  '  Twas 
the  name  for  which  my  soul  had  panted  for 
years,  as  the  hart  panteth  for  water-brooks. 
But  where  was  Duluth  ?  Never,  in  all  my 
limited  reading,  had  my  vision  been  gladdened 
by  seeing  the  celestial  word  in  print.  And  I 
felt  a  pro  founder  humiliation  in  my  ignorance, 
that  its  dulcet  syllables  had  never  before  rav- 
ished my  delighted  ear.  I  was  certain  the 
draughtsman  of  this  bill  had  never  heard  of 
it,  or  it  would  have  been  designated  as  one  of 
the  termini  of  this  road.  I  asked  my  friends 
about  it,  but  they  knew  nothing  of  it.  I 
rushed  to  the  Library  and  examined  all  the 
maps  I  could  find.  I  discovered  in  one  of 
them  a  delicate,  hair-like  line,  diverging  from 
the  Mississippi  near  a  place  marked  Prescott, 
which  I  supposed  was  intended  to  represent 
the  river  St.  Croix,  but  I  could  nowhere  find 
Duluth. 

Nevertheless,  I  was  confident  it  existed 
somewhere,  and  that  its  discovery  would  con- 
stitute the  crowning  glory  of  the  present  cen- 
tury, if  not  of  all  modern  times.  I  knew  it 
was  bound  to  exist  in  the  very  nature  of 
things  ;  that  the  symmetry  and  perfection  of 
our  planetary  system  would  be  incomplete 
without  it,  that  the  elements  of  material  na- 
ture would  long  since  have  resolved  them- 
selves back  into  original  chaos  if  there  had 
been  such  a  hiatus  in  creation  as  would  have 
resulted  from  leaving  out  Duluth.  In  fact, 
sir,  I  was  overwhelmed  with  the  conviction 
that  Duluth  not  only  existed  somewhere,  but 
that  wherever  it  was,  it  was  a  great  and  glo- 
rious place.  I  was  convinced  that  the  great 
est  calamity  that  ever  befell  the  benighted  na- 
tions of  the  ancient  world  was  in  their  hav- 
ing passed  away  without  a  knowledge  of  the 
actual  existence  of  Duluth ;  that  their  fabled 
Atlantis,  never  seen  save  by  the  hallowed  vis- 
ion of  inspired  poesy,  was,  in  fact  but  another 
name  for  Duluth  ;  that  the  golden  orchard  of 
the  Hesperides  was  but  a  poetical  synonym  for 
the  beer  gardens  in  the  vicinity  of  Duluth.  I 
was  certain  that  Herodotus  had  died  a  miser- 
able death  because  in  all  his  travels  and  with  all 
his  geographical  research  he  had  never  heard 
of  Duluth.  I  knew  that  if  the  immortal 
spirit  of  Homer  could  look  down  from  another 
heaven  than  that  created  by  his  own  celestial 


20 

genius  upon  the  long  lines  of  pilgrims  from 
every  nation  of  the  earth  to  the  gushing  foun- 
tain of  poesy  opened  by  the  touch  of  his 
magic  wand,  if  he  could  be  permitted  to  be- 
hold  the  vast  assemblage  of  grand  and  glorious 
productions  of  the  lyric  art  called  into  being 
by  his  own  inspired  strains,  he  would  weep 
Lears  of  bitter  anguish  that  instead  of  lavish- 
ing all  the  stores  of  his  mighty  genius  upon 
the  fall  of  Troy  it  had  not  been  his  more 
blessed  lot  to  crystallize  in  deathless  song  the 
rising  glories  of  Duluth.  Yet,  sir,  had  it  not 
been  for  this  map,  kindly  furnished  me  by 
the  Legislature  of  Minnesota,  I  might  have 
gone  down  to  my  obscure  and  humble  grave 
in  an  agony  of  despair,  because  I  could  no- 
where find  Duluth.  Had  such  been  my  mel- 
ancholy fate,  I  have  no  doubt  that  with  the 
last  feeble  pulsation  of  my  breaking  heart, 
with  the  last  faint  exhalation  of  my  fleeting 
breath  1  should  have  whispered,  "  Where  is 
Duluth?" 

But,  thanks  to  the  beneficence  of  that  band 
of  ministering  angels  who  have  their  bright 
abodes  in  the  far-off  capital  of  Minnesota,  just 
as  the  agony  of  my  anxiety  was  about  to  cul- 
minate in  the  frenzy  of  despair,  this  blessed 
map  was  placed  in  my  hands ;  and  as  I  un- 
folded it  a  resplendent  scene  of  ineffable  glory 
opened  before  me,  such  as  I  imagine  burst 
upon  the  enraptured  vision  of  the  wandering 
peri  through  the  opening  gates  of  paradise. 
There,  there  for  the  first  time  my  enchanted 
eye  rested  upon  the  ravishing  word  "  Du- 
luth." 

This  map,  sir,  is  intended,  as  it  appears 
from  its  title,  to  illustrate  the  position  of  Du- 
luth in  the  United  States,  but  if  gentlemen 
will  examine  it,  I  think  they  will  concur 
with  me  in  the  opinion  that  it  is  far  too  mod- 
est in  its  pretensions.  It  not  only  illustrates 
the  position  of  Duluth  in  the  United  States, 
but  exhibits  its  relations  with  all  created 
things.  It  even  goes  further  than  this.  It 
lifts  the  shadowy  veil  of  futurity,  and  affords 
us  a  view  of  the  golden  prospects  of  Duluth, 
far  along  the  dim  vista  of  ages  yet  to  come. 

If  gentlemen  will  examine  it,  they  will 
find  Duluth  not  only  in  the  centre  of  the 
map,  but  represented  in  the  centre  of  a  series 
of  concentric  circles  one  hundred  miles  apart, 
and  some  of  them  as  much  as  four  thousand 
miles  in  diameter,  embracing  alike  in  their 
tremendous  sweep  the  fragrant  savannas  of 
the  sunlit  South,  and  the  eternal  solitudes  of 
snow  that  mantle  the  ice-bound  North.  How 
these  circles  were  produced  is  perhaps  one  of 
those  primoidial  mysteries  that  the  most 
skillful  paleologist  will  never  be  able  to  ex- 
plain. But  the  fact  is,  sir,  Duluth  is  pre- 
eminently a  central  place,  for  I  am  told  by 


PROCTOR  KNOTT'S  DULUTH  SPEECH. 


gentlemen  who  have  been  so  reckless  of  their 
own  personal  safety  as  to  venture  away  into 
those  awful  regions,  where  Duluth  is  sup- 
posed to  be,  that  it  is  so  exactly  in  the  centre 
of  the  visible  universe,  that  the  sky  comes 
down  at  precisely  the  same  distance  all 
around  it. 

I  find  by  reference  to  this  map,  that  Du- 
luth is  situated  somewhere  near  the  western 
end  of  Lake  Superior,  but  as  there  is  no  dot 
or  other  mark  indicating  its  exact  location,  I 
am  unable  to  say  whether  it  is  actually  con- 
fined to  any  particular  spot,  or  whether  "  it 
is  just  lying  around  there  loose."  I  really 
cannot  tell  whether  it  is  one  of  those 
ethereal  creations  of  intellectual  frostwork, 
more  intangible  than  the  rose-tinted  clouds  of 
a  summer  sunset ;  one  of  those  airy  exhala- 
tions of  the  speculator's  brain,  which  I  am 
told  are  ever  flitting  in  the  form  of  towns 
and  cities  along  those  lines  of  railroad,  built 
with  Government  subsidies,  luring  the  unwa- 
ry settlers,  as  the  mirage  of  the  desert  lures 
the  famished  traveller  on,  and  ever  on  until  it 
fades  away  in  the  darkening  horizon,  or 
whether  it  is  a  real,  bona  fide,  substantial 
city,  all  "staked  oif,"  with  the  lots  marked 
with  their  owner's  name,  like  that  proud 
commercial  metropolis  lately  discovered  on 
the  desirable  shores  of  San  Domingo.  But, 
however  that  may  be,  I  am  satisfied  Duluth 
is  there,  or  thereabout;  for  I  see  it  stated 
here  on  this  map  that  it  is  exactly  thirty-nine 
hundred  and  ninety  miles  from  Liverpool, 
though  I  have  no  doubt,  for  the  sake  of  con- 
venience it  will  be  moved  back  ten  miles,  so 
as  to  make  the  distance  an  even  four  thou- 
sand. 

Then,  sir,  there  is  the  climate  of  Duluth, 
unquestionably  the  most  salubrious  and  de- 
lightful to  be  found  anywhere  on  the  Lord's 
earth.  Now,  I  have  always  been  under  the 
impression,  as  I  presume  other  gentlemen 
have,  that  in  the  region  around  Lake  Super- 
ior it  was  cold  enough  for  at  least  nine 
months  in  the  year  to  freeze  the  smoke- 
stack off  a  locomotive.  But  I  see  it  repre- 
sented, on  this  map,  that  Duluth  is  situated 
exactly  half  way  between  the  latitudes  of 
Paris  and  Venice,  so  that  gentlemen  who 
have  inhaled  the  exhilarating  airs  of  the  one 
or  basked  in  the  golden  sunlight  of  the  other, 
must  see  at  a  glance  that  Duluth  must  be  a 
place  of  untold  delights,  a  terrestrial  para- 
dise, fanned  by  the  balmy  zephyrs  of  an 
eternal  spring,  clothed  in  the  gorgeous  sheen 
of  ever  blooming  flowers,  and  vocal  with  the 
silvery  melody  of  nature's  choicest  songsters. 
In  fact,  sir,  since  I  have  seen  this  map  I 
have  no  doubt  that  Byron  was  vainly  endeav- 
oring to  convey  some  faint  conception  of  the 


FUNERAL  ORATION  OF  PERICLES. 


27 


delicious  charms  of  Duluth,  when  his  poetic 
soul  gushed  forth  in  the  rippling  strains  of 
that  beautiful  rhapsody : 

*  Know  ye  tlio  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine ; 
Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppressed  with  per- 
fume, 

Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  in  her  bloom : 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute ; 
\There  the  tints  of  the  earth  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie." 

As  to  the  commercial  resources  of  Duluth, 
sir,  they  are  simply  illimitable  and  inex- 
haustible, as  is  shown  by  this  map.  I  see  it 
stated  here  that  there  is  a  vast  scope  of  terri- 
tory, embracing  an  area  of  over  two  million 
square  miles,  rich  in  every  element  of  ma- 
terial wealth  and  commercial  prosperity,  all 
tributary  to  Duluth.  Look  at  it,  sir.  Here 
are  inexhaustible  mines  of  gold,  immeasura- 
ble veins  of  silver,  impenetrable  depths  of 
boundless  forest,  vast  coal-measures,  wide, 
extended  plains  of  richest  pasturage,  all — 
all  embraced  in  the  vast  territory,  which 
must,  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  empty 
the  untold  treasures  of  its  commerce  into  the 
lap  of  Duluth. 

Sir,  I  might  stand  here  for  hours  and  hours 
and  expatiate  with  rapture  on  the  gorgeous 
prospects  of  Duluth,  as  depicted  upon  this  map. 
But  human  life  is  too  short,  and  the  time  of 
this  House  far  too  valuable  to  allow  me  to  lin- 
ger longer  upon  the  delightful  theme.  I  think 
every  gentleman  on  this  floor  is  as  well  satis- 
fied as  I  am  that  Duluth  is  destined  to  become 
the  commercial  metropolis  of  the  universe, 
and  that  this  road  should  be  built  at  once.  I 
am  fully  persuaded  that  no  patriotic  Repre- 
sentative of  the  American  people  who  has 
a  proper  appreciation  of  the  associated  glories 
of  Duluth  and  the  St.  Croix,  will  hesitate  a 
moment  to  say  that  every  able-bodied  female 
in  the  land,  between  the  ages  of  eighteen  and 
forty-five,  who  is  in  favor  of  "  women's 
rights,"  should  be  drafted  and  set  to  work 
upon  this  great  work  without  delay.  Never- 
theless, sir,  it  grieves  my  very  soul  to  be 
compelled  to  say  that  I  cannot  vote  for  the 
grant  of  lands  provided  for  in  this  bill. 

Ah,  sir !  you  can  have  no  conception  of 
the  poignancy  of  my  anguish  that  I  am  de- 
prived of  that  blessed  privilege  !  There  are 
two  insuperable  obstacles  in  the  way.  In 
the  first  place  my  constituents,  for  whom  I 
am  acting  here,  have  no  more  interest  in  this 
road,  than  they  have  in  the  great  question  of 
culinary  taste,  now  perhaps  agitating  the 
public  mind  of  Dominica,  as  to  whether  the 


illustrious  commissioners  who  recently  left 
this  capital  for  that  free  and  enlightened  re- 
public, would  be  better  fricasseed,  boiled  or 
roasted  ;  and  in  the  second  place  these  lands, 
which  I  am  asked  to  give  away,  alas,  are 
not  mine  to  bestow  !  My  relation  to  them  is 
simply  that  of  trustee  to  an  express  trust. 
And  shall  I  ever  betray  that  trust  ?  Never, 
sir  !  Rather  perish  Duluth  !  Perish  the 
paragon  of  cities  !  Rather  let  the  freezing 
cyclone  of  the  bleak  North-west  bury  it  for- 
ever beneath  the  eddying  sands  of  the  raging 
St.  Croix  1 


AMERICA. 

SAMUEL  FRANCIS  SMITH,  D.  D.,  born  at  Boston,  Mass., 
1808,  devoted  himself  to  literature  and  the  Church;  w 
best  known  by  the  lyric  given  below. 
My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing ; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrim's  pride, 
From  every  mountain-side 
Let  freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee — 
Land  of  the  noble  free — 

Thy  name  I  love ; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills ; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  freedom's  song : 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake ; 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake; 
Let  r.)cks  their  silence  break, — 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  liberty, 

To  Thee  wo  sing ; 
Lon~  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  light ; 
Protect  us  by  Thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King. 


THE  FUNERAL  ORATION  OF  PERICLES. 

Accordingly  over  these  who  were  first  bur- 
ied at  any  rate,  Pericles  son  of  Xanthippus 
was  chosen  to  speak.  And  when  the  time  for 
doing  so  came,  advancing  from  the  sepulchre 
on  to  a  platform,  which  had  been  raised  to 


30 


FUNERAL  ORATION  OF  PERICLES. 


that  adorned  her  with  them  ;  and  few  of  the 
Greeks  are  there  whose  lame,  like  these  men, 
would  appear  but  the  just  counterpoise  of 
their  deeds.  Again,  the  closing  scene  of 
these  men  appears  to  me  to  supply  an  illus- 
tration of  human  worth,  whether  as  affording 
us  the  first  information  respecting  it,  or  its 
final  confirmation.  For  even  in  the  case  of 
men  who  have  been  in  other  respects  of  an 
inferior  character,  it  is  but  fair  for  them  to 
hold  forth  as  a  screen  their  military  courage 
in  their  country's  behalf;  for,  having  wiped 
out  their  evil  by  their  good,  they  did  more 
service  collectively,  than  harm  by  their  indi- 
vidual offences.  But  of  these  men  there  was 
none  that  either  was  made  a  coward  by  his 
wealth,  from  preferring  the  continued  enjoy- 
ment of  it ;  or  shrank  from  danger  through 
a  hope  suggested  by  poverty,  namely,  that 
he  might  yet  escape  it,  and  grow  rich  ;  but 
conceiving  that  vengeance  on  their  foes  was 
more  to  be  desired  than  these  objects,  and  at 
the  same  time  regarding  this  as  the  most 
glorious  of  hazards,  they  wished  by  risking 
it  to  be  avenged  on  their  enemies,  and  so  to 
aim  at  procuring  those  advantages ;  com- 
mitting to  hope  the  uncertainty  of  success, 
but  resolving  to  trust  to  action,  with  regard 
to  what  was  visible  to  themselves  ;  and  in 
that  action,  being  minded  rather  to  resist  and 
die,  than  by  surrendering  to  escape,  they 
fled  from  the  shame  of  [a  discreditable]  re- 
port, while  they  endured  the  brunt  of  the 
battle  with  their  bodies  ;  and  after  the  short- 
est crisis,  when  at  the  very  height  of  their 
fortune,  were  taken  away  from  their  glory 
rather  than  their  fear. 

"  Such  did  these  men  prove  themselves,  as 
became  the  character  of  their  country.  For 
you  that  remain,  you  must  pray  that  you 
may  have  a  more  successful  resolution,  but 
must  determine  not  to  have  one  less  bold 
against  your  enemies  ;  not  in  word  alone 
considering  the  benefit  [of  such  a  spirit], 
(on  which  one  might  descant  to  you  at  great 
length — though  you  know  it  yourselves  quite 
as  well — telling  you  how  many  advantages 
are  contained  in  repelling  your  foes;)  but 
rather  day  by  day  beholding  the  power  of 
the  city  as  it  appears  in  fact,  and  growing 
enamoured  of  it,  and  reflecting,  when  you 
fiink  it  great,  that  it  was  by  being  bold,  and 
knowing  their  duty,  and  being  alive  to  shame 
in  action,  that  men  acquired  these  things  ; 
and  because,  if  they  ever  failed  in  their  at- 
tempt at  nny  thing,  they  did  not  on  that  ac- 
count think  it  right  to  deprive  their  country 
also  of  their  valour,  but  conferred  upon  her 
a  most  glorious  joint-offering.  For  while 
collectively  they  gave  her  their  lives,  individ- 
ually they  received  that  renown  which  never 


grows  old,  and  the  most  distinguished  tomb 
they  could  have  ;  not  so  much  that  in  which 
they  are  laid,  as  that  in  which  their  glory  is 
left  behind  them,  to  be  everlastingly  recorded 
*on  every  occasion  for  doing  so,  either  by 
word  or  deed,  that  may  from  time  to  time 
present  itself.  For  of  illustrious  men  the 
whole  earth  is  the  sepulchre ;  and  not  only 
does  the  inscription  upon  columns  in  their 
own  land  point  it  out,  but  in  that  also  which 
is  not  their  own  there  dwells  with  every  one 
an  unwritten  memorial  of  the  heart,  rather 
than  of  a  material  monument.  Vicing  then 
with  these  men  in  your  turn,  and  deeming 
happiness  to  consist  in  freedom,  and  freedom 
in  valour,  do  riot  think  lightly  of  the  haz- 
ards of  war.  For  it  is  not  the  unfortunate, 
[and  those]  who  have  no  hope  of  any  good, 
that  would  with  most  reason  be  unsparing  of 
their  lives ;  but  those  who  while  they  live, 
still  incur  the  risk  of  a  change  to  the  opposite 
condition,  and  to  whom  the  difference  would 
be  the  greatest,  should  they  meet  with  any 
reverse.  For  more  grievous,  to  a  man  of 
high  spirit  at  least,  is  the  misery  which  ac- 
companies cowardice,  than  the  unfelt  death 
which  comes  upon  him  at  once,  in  the  time 
of  his  strength  and  of  his  hope  for  the  com- 
mon welfare. 

"  Wherefore  to  the  parents  of  the  dead — as 
many  of  them  as  are  here  among  you — I  will 
not  offer  condolence,  so  much  as  consolation. 
For  they  know  that  they  have  been  brought 
up  subject  to  manifold  misfortunes  ;  but  that 
happy  is  their  lot  who  have  gained  the  most 
glorious — death,  as  these  have, — sorrow,  as 
you  have  ;  and  to  whom  life  has  been  so  ex- 
actly measured,  that  they  were  both  happy 
in  it,  and  died  in  [that  happiness].  Difficult, 
indeed,  I  know  it  is  to  persuade  you  of  this, 
with  regard  to  those  of  whom  you  will  often 
be  reminded  by  the  good  fortune  of  others, 
in  which  you  yourselves  also  once  rejoiced  ; 
and  sorrow  is  felt,  not  for  the  blessings  of 
which  one  is  bereft  without  full  experience 
of  them,  but  of  that  which  one  loses  after  be- 
coming accustomed  to  it.  But  you  must  bear 
up  in  the  hope  of  other  children,  those  of 
you  whose  age  yet  allows  you  to  have  them. 
For  to  yourselves  individually  those  who  art 
subsequently  born  will  be  a  reason  for  youi 
forgetting  those  who  are  no  more;  and  to  the 
state  it  will  be  beneficial  in  two  ways,  by  its 
not  being  depopulated,  and  by  the  enjoyment 
of  security ;  for  it  is  not  possible  that  those 
should  offer  any  fair  and  just  advice,  who  do 
not  incur  equal  risk  with  their  neighbours  by 
having  children  at  stake.  Those  of  you,  how- 


*  Literally,  "  on  every  occasion,  either  of  word  or  deed, 
that  may  from  time  to  time  present  itself." 


LONDON  SOCIETY  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 


31 


ever,  who  are  past  that  age,  must  consider  that 
the  longer  period  of  your  life  during  which  you 
have  been  prosperous  is  so  inucn  gain,  and 
that  what  remains  will  be  but  a  short  one ; 
and  you  must  cheer  yourselves  with  the  fair 
fame  of  these  [your  lost  ones].  For  the  love 
of  honour  is  the  only  feeling  that  never  grows 
old ;  and  in  the  helplessness  of  age  it  is  not 
the  acquisition  of  gain,  as  some  assert,  that 
gives  greatest" pleasure,  but  the  enjoyment  of 
honour. 

THUCYDIDES. 


THE  POPE  AND  THE  BEGGAR. 

THE   DESIRES   THE   CHAINS,   THE   DEEDS   THE   WINGS. 

I  saw  a  soul  beside  the  clay  it  wore, 

When  reign'd  that  clay  tho  Hierarch-Sire  of  Rome; 
A  hundred  priests  stood  ranged  the  bier  before, 
Within  St.  Peter's  dome. 

And  all  was  incense,  solemn  dirge,  and  prayer, 
And  still  the  soul  stood  sullen  by  the  clay :    • 
"0  soul,  why  to  thy  heavenlier  native  air 
Dost  thou  not  soar  away?" 

Ami  the  soul  answer'd,  with  a  ghastly  frown, 

"In  what  life  loved,  death  finds  its  weal  or  woe; 
Slave  to  the  clay's  Desires,  they  drag  me  down 
To  the  clay's  rot  below !" 

It  spoke,  and  where  Rome's  purple  ones  repo.'ed, 

They  lowered  the  corpse ;  and  downwards  from  the  sua 
Both  soul  and  body  sunk — and  darknecis  closed 
Over  that  twofold  one ! 

Without  the  church,  unbnriod  on  the  ground, 

There  lay,  in  rags,  a  beggar  newly  dead; 
Above  the  dust  no  h>ly  priest  was  found, 
No  pious  prayer  was  said ! 

But  round  the  corpse  unnumber'd  lovely  things, 

Hovering  unseen  by  the  proud  passers  by, 
Fonn'd,  upward,  upward,  upward,  with  bright  wings, 
A  ladder  to  the  sky ! 

"  And  what  are  ye,  0  beautiful  ?"    "  We  are," 

Answered  the  choral  cherubim,  "  His  Deeds !" 
Then  his  soul,  sparkling  sudden  as  a  star, 
Flashed  from  its  mortal  weeds, 

And,  lightly  passing,  tier  on  tier  along 

The  gradual  piniom,  vanish'd  like  a  smile ! 
Just  then,  swept  by  the  solemn-visaged  throng 
From  the  Apostle's  pile. 

*  Knew  ye  this  beggar?"    "  Knew  ?  a  wretch  who  died 

Under  the  curse  of  our  good  Pope,  now  gone !" 
"  Lioved  ye  that  Pope?"      '  He  was  our  Church's  pride, 
And  Rome's  most  holy  son !" 


Then  did  I  muse ;  such  are  men's  judgments ;  blind 

In  scorn  of  love !  In  what  unguess'd-of  things, 
Desires  or  Deeds— do  rags  and  purple  find 
The  fetters  or  the  wings ! 

BULWER  LYTTOJJ. 


LONDON  SOCIETY  A  HUNDRED  YEAES 
AGO. 

GEORGE  OTTO  TREVELYAN,  born  in  Leicestershire,  1838, 
educated  at  Cambridge,  took  high  rank  in  the  East  In- 
dian Civil  service,  was  the  nephew  of  Lord  Macaulay, 
through  tho  marriage  of  his  father  to  Macaulay's  sister. 
A  skilful  critic  and  a  finished  writer,  elected  to  Parlia- 
ment as  a  Liberal  in  18G5,  held  office  under  Gladstone, 
1868-70;  again  in  Parliament,  1874-1880;  author  of 
"  Life  and  Letters  of  Lord  Macaulay,"  (1876),  and  "  The 
Early  History  of  Charles  James  Fox,"  (1880). 

The  following  extract  is  from  his  latest  work  : 

Moral  considerations  apart,  no  more  de- 
sirable lot  can  well  be  imagined  for  a  human 
being  than  that  he  should  be  included  in  the 
ranks  of  a  highly  civilized  aristocracy  at  the 
culminating  moment  of  its  vigor.  A  society 
so  broad  and  strongly  based  that  within  its 
own  borders  it  can  safely  permit  absolute 
liberty  of  thought  and  speech  ;  whose  mem- 
bers are  so  numerous  that  they  are  able  to 
believe,  with  some  show  of  reason,  that  the 
interests  of  the  state  are  identical  with  their 
own,  and  at  the  same  time  so  privileged  that 
they  are  sure  to  get  the  best  of  everything 
which  is  to  be  had,  is  a  society  uniting,  as 
far  as  those  members  are  concerned,  most  of 
the  advantages  and  all  the  attractions  both 
of  a  popular  and  an  oligarchical  form  of  gov- 
ernment. It  is  in  such  societies  that  existence 
has  been  enjoyed  most  keenly,  and  that 
books  have  been  written  which  communicate 
a  sense  of  that  enjoyment  most  vividly  to 
posterity.  The  records  of  other  periods  may 
do  more  to  illustrate  the  working  of  political 
forces  and  to  clear  up  the  problems  of  histor- 
ical science ;  the  literature  of  other  periods 
may  be  richer  in  wealth  of  thought  and 
nobler  in  depth  of  feeling ;  but  a  student 
who  loves  to  dwell  upon  times  when  men 
lived  so  intensely  and  wrote  so  joyously  that 
their  past  seems  to  us  as  our  present  will 
never  tire  of  recurring  to  the  Athens  of 
Alcibiades  and  Aristophanes,  the  Rome  of 
Mark  Antony  and  Cicero,  and  the  London  of 
Charles  Townshend  and  Horace  Walpole. 
The  special  charm  of  the  literature  produced 
in  communities  so  constituted  is  that  in  those 


LONDON  SOCIETY  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 


32 


communities,  and   in   those   alone,  personal 
aLusion,   tue  most  effective   weapon  in   the 
armory  of  letters,  can  be  employed  with  a 
certainty  of  success.     A  few  thousand  people 
who  thought  that  the  world  was  made  for 
them,  and  that  all  outside  their  own  fraterni- 
ty were  unworthy  of  notice  or  criticism,  be- 
stowed upon  each  other  an  amount  of  atten- 
tion quite  inconceivable  to  us  who  count  our 
equals    by    millions.     The   actions,  the   for- 
tunes, and  the  peculiarities  of  every  one  who  j 
belonged  to  the  ruling  class  became  matters  j 
of  such  importance  to  his  fellows  that  satire 
and  gossip  were  elevated  into  branches  of 
the  highest  literary  art.      Every  hit  in  an  j 
Athenian  burlesque  was  recognized  on  the  ; 
instant  by  every  individual   in  an  audience  ! 
which  comprised  the  whole  body  of  free-born  j 
citizens.'     The   names   and   habits   of  every  j 
parasite    and    informer    and    legacy-hunter  j 
within  the  circuit  of  the  Seven  Hills  were  I 
accurately  known  to  every  Roman  who  had 
enough  spare  sesterces  to  purchase  a  manu- 
script of  Juvenal.  In  the  eighteenth  century, 
in  our  own  country,  the  same  causes  pro- 
duced the  same  results  ;  and  the  flavor  of  the 
immortal  impertinences  which  two  thousand 
years  before  were   directed  against  Pericles 
and  Euripides  may  be  recognized  in  the  let- 
ters  which,    when    George    the   Third    was 
young,  were-  handed  about  among  a  knot  of 
men  of  fashion  and  family  who  could  never 
have  enough  of  discussing  the  characters  and 
ambitions,  the  incomes  and  genealogies,  the 
scrapes  and  the  gallantries,  of  everybody  who 
had   admission   to   the   circle   within  which 
their  lives  were  passed. 

The  society  pictured  in  these  letters  had 
much  the  same  relation  to  what  is  called  good 
society  now  that  the  "Boar  Hunt"  by 
Velasquez,  in  the  National  Gallery,  with  its 
groups  of  stately  cavaliers,  courteous  to  each 
other,  and  unmindful  of  all  besides,  bears  to 
the  scene  of  confused  bustle  and  dubious  en- 
joyment represented  in  the  "  Derby  Day"  of 
Mr.  Frith.  So  far  from  being  a  vast  and  ill- 
defined  region,  capable  of  almost  infinite  ex- 
pansion, into  which  anybody  can  work  his 
way  who  has  a  little  money  and  a  great  deal 
of  leisure,  and  who  is  willing  to  invest  his 
industry  in  the  undertaking,  good  society, 
when  Lord  Chesterfield  was  its  oracle  and  | 
George  Selwyn  its  father-confessor,  was  in- 
closed within  ascertained  and  narrow  bound- 
aries. The  extent  of  those  boundaries  was 
so  familiar  to  all  who  were  admitted  and  all 
•who  were  excluded  that  a  great  lady,  when 
she  gave  an  evening  party,  would  content 
herself  with  sending  cards  to  the  women, 
while  she  left  the  men  to  judge  for  them- 
selves whether  they  had  a  right  to  come  or 


not.  Within  the  charmed  precincts  there 
prevailed  an  easy  and  natural  mode  of  inter- 
course which  in  some  respects  must  have 
been  singularly  delightful,  Secure  of  his 
own  position,  and  with  no  desire  to  contest 
the  social  claims  of  others,  a  man  was  satis- 
fied, and  sometimes  only  too  easily  satisfied, 
to  show  himself  exactly  as  he  was.  Ihere 
was  no  use  in  trying  to  impose  upon  people 
who  had  been  his  school-fellows  at  Eton,  his 
brother-officers  in  the  Guards,  his  colleagues 
in  Parliament,  his  partners  at  whist,  his  cro- 
nies at  the  club,  his  companions  in  a  hundred 
revels.  Every  friend  with  whom  he  lived 
was  acquainted  with  every  circumstance  in 
his  career  and  every  turn  in  his  aflairs — who 
had  jilted  him,  and  who  had  schemed  for 
him ;  how  many  thousands  a  year  had  been 
allowed  him  by  his  father,  and  how  many 
hundreds  he  allowed  his  son ;  how  much  of 
his  rent-roll  was  unmortgaged,  and  how 
much  wood  was  left  uncut  in  his  plantations ; 
what  chance  he  had  of  getting  heard  at  two 
in  the  morning  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  what  influence  he  possessed  over  the 
corporation  of  his  neighboring  borough.  Un- 
able to  dazzle  those  for  whose  good  opinion 
he  cared,  it  only  remained  for  him  to  amuse 
them  ;  and  the  light  and  elegant  effusions  in 
which  the  fine  gentlemen  of  White's  and 
Arthur's  rivalled,  and,  as  some  think,  ex- 
celled, the  wittiest  pens  of  France  remain  to 
prove  of  what  Englishmen  are  capable  when 
they  devote  the  best  of  their  energy  to  the 
business  of  being  frivolous. 

The  frivolity  of  the  last  century  was  not 
confined  to  the  youthful,  the  foolish,  or  even 
to  the  idle.  There  never  will  be  a  generation 
which  cannot  supply  a  parallel  to  the  lads 
who,  in  order  that  they  might  the  better  hear 
the  nonsense  which  they  were  talking  across 
a  tavern  table,  had  Pall  Mall  laid  down  with 
straw  at  the  cost  of  fifty  shillings  a  head  for 
the  party ;  or  to  the  younger  brother  who 
gave  half  a  guinea  every  morning  to  the 
flower- woman  who  brought  him  a  nosegay  of 
roses  for  his  button-hole.  These  follies  are 
of  all  times ;  but  what  was  peculiar  to  the 
period  when  Charles  Fox  took  his  seat  in 
Parliament  and  his  place  in  society  consisted 
in  the  phenomenon  (for  to  our  ideas  it  is  no- 
thing else)  that  men  of  age  and  standing,  of 
strong  mental  powers  and  refined  cultivation, 
lived  openly,  shamelessly,  and  habitually,  in 
the  face  of  all  England,  as  no  one  who  had 
any  care  for  his  reputation  would  now  live 
during  a  single  fortnight  of  the  year  at 
Monaco.  As  a  sequel  to  such  home-teaching 
as  Lord  Holland  was  qualified  to  impart,  the 
young  fellow,  on  his  entrance  into  the  great 
world,  was  called  upon  to  shape  his  life  ac- 


LONDON  SOCIETY  A  HUNDRED  YEAR3  AGO. 


33 


cor  ling  to  the  models  that  the  public  opinion  \ 
of  the  day  held  up  for  his  imitation  ;  and  the  j 
examples  which  he  saw  around  him  would  i 
have  tempted  cooler  blood  than  his,  and 
turned  even  a  more  tranquil  brain.  The 
ministers  who  guided  the  state,  whom  the 
king  delighted  to  honor,  who  had  the  charge 
of  public  decency  and  order,  who  named  the 
fathers  of  the  Church,  whose  duty  it  was  (to 
use  the  words  of  their  monarch)  "  to  prevent 
any  alterations  in  so  essential  a  part  of  the 
Constitution  as  everything  that  relates  to  re- 
ligion," were  conspicuous  for  impudent  vice, 
for  daily  dissipation,  for  pranks  which 
would  have  been  regarded  as  childish  and 
unbecoming  by  the  cornets  of  a  crack  cav- 
alry regiment  in  the  worst  days  of  military 
license.  The  Duke  of  Grafton  flaunted  at 
Ascot  races  with  a  mistress  whom  he  had 
picked  up  in  the  street,  and  paraded  her  at 
the  opera  when  the  royal  party  were  in  their 
box.  So  public  an  outrage  on  the  part  of 
the  first  servant  of  the  crown  roused  a  mo- 
mentary indignation  even  in  hardened 
minds.  ••  Libertine  men,"  writes  an  active 
politician  in  April,  1768,  "are  as  much 
offended  as  prudish  women  ;  and  it  is  impos- 
sible he  should  think  of  remaining  a  minis- 
ter." But  George  the  Third  was  willing  that 
the  Duke  of  Grafton  should  bring  whom  he 
pleased  under  the  same  roof  as  the  queen,  so 
long  as  he  kept  such  people  aa  Rockingham 
and  Burke  and  Richmond  out  of  the  cabinet. 
Where  the  king  gave  his  confidence,  it  was 
not  for  his  subjects  to  play  the  Puritan,  or, 
at  any  rate,  for  those  among  his  subjects 
who  lived  upon  the  good  graces  of  the  prime 
minister ;  and  in  the  following  August,  when 
Miss  Parsons  showed  herself  at  the  Ridotto, 
she  was  followed  about  by  as  large  a  crowd 
as  ever  of  smart  gentlemen  who  wanted  com- 
missionerships  for  themselves  and  deaneries 
for  their  younger  brothers.  ****** 

So'.ne  excuse  for  the  vices  of  idle  and  irre- 
sponsible gentlemen  was  to  bo  found  in  the 
example  of  those  elevated  personages  who  em- 
bodied the  majesty  of  justice  and  the  sanctity 
of  religion.  When  Charles  Fox  first  took  j 
rank  among  grown  men,  the  head  of  the 
law  in  England  and  the  head  of  the  Church 
in  Ireland  were  notorious  as  two  among  the 
hardest  livers  in  their  respective  countries ; 
and  such  a  pre-eminence  was  then  not  lightly 
earned.  '•  They  tell  me,  Sir  John/'  said 
George  the  Third  to  one  of  his  favorites, 
"that  you  love  a  glass  of  wine."  "Those 
who  have  so  informed  your  Majesty,"  was 
the  reply,  "have  done  me  great  injustice; 
they  should  have  said  a  bottle;"  and  in  the 
days  of  Lord  Chancellor  Northington  and 
Archbishop  Stone  very  small  account  was 

VOL.  I. 


taken  of  any  aspirant  to  convivial  honors  who 
reckoned  his  progress  through  the  evening  by 
glasses.  Philip  Francis,  with  a  motive  for 
keeping  guard  upon  his  tongue  as  strong  as 
ever  man  had,  could  not  always  get  through 
an  after-dinner  sitting  without  losing  his  head, 
although  he  sipped  thimblefuls  while  his  com- 
panions were  draining  bumpers.  Two  of 
his  friends,  without  any  sense  of  having  per- 
formed an  exceptional  feat,  finished  between 
them  a  gallon  and  a  half  of  champagne  and 
burgundy — a  debauch  which,  in  this  unheroio 
age,  it  almost  makes  one  ill  to  read  of.  It  ia 
impossible  to  repress  a  feeling  of  undutiful 
satisfaction  at  the  thought  that  few  among  our 
ancestors  escaped  the  penalties  of  this  mon- 
strous self-indulgence,  from  which  so  many 
of  their  innocent  descendants  are  still  suffer- 
ing. Their  lives  were  short,  and  their  clos- 
ing years  far  from  merry.  "  Lord  Cholmon- 
deley,"  wrote  Walpole,  "died  last  Saturday. 
He  was  seventy,  and  had  a  constitution  to 
have  carried  him  to  a  hundred,  if  he  had  not 
destroyed  it  by  an  intemperance  that  would 
have  killed  anybody  else  in  half  the  time.  As 
it  was,  he  had  outlived  by  fifteen  years  all 
his  set,  who  have  reeled  into  the  ferry-boat 
so  long  before  him."  A  squire  past-five-and 
fifty  who  still  rode  to  hounds  or  walked  after 
partridges  was  the  envy  of  the  country-side 
for  his  health,  unless  he  had  long  been  its 
scorn  for  his  sobriety ;  and  a  cabinet  minister 
of  the  same  age  who  could  anticipate  with 
confidence  that,  at  a  critical  juncture,  he 
would  be  able  to  write  a  confidential  dispatch 
with  his  own  hand,  must  have  observed  a  very 
different  regimen  from  most  of  his  contem- 
poraries. The  memorable  denunciation  of 
our  alliance  with  the  North  American  sav- 
ages, as  splendid  a  burst  of  eloquence  as  ever 
thrilled  the  House  of  Lords,  was  levelled  by 
an  ex-secretary  of  state  who  never  was  him- 
self except  after  a  sharp  attack  of  the  gout, 
against  a  secretary  of  state  who,  at  thirty- 
two,  had  been  almost  too  gouty  to  accept  the 
seals.  Wine  did  more  than  work  or  worry  to 
expedite  that  flow  of  promotion  to  which 
modern  vice-presidents  and  junior  lords  look 
back  with  wistful  regret.  A  statesman  of  the 
Georgian  era  was  sailing  on  a  sea  of  claret 
from  one  comfortable  official  haven  to  another 
at  a  period  of  life  when  a  political  apprentice 
in  the  reign  of  Victoria  is  not  yet  out  of  his  in- 
dentures. No  one  can  study  the  public  or 
personal  history  of  the  eighteenth  century 
without  being  impressed  by  the  truly  immense 
space  which  drinking  occupied  in  the  mental 
horizon  of  the  young,  and  the  consequences  of 
drinking  in  that  of  the  old.  As  we  turn  over 
volume  after  volume  we  find  the  same  dismal 
story  of  gout,  first  dreaded  as  an  avenger,  and 


LONDON  SOCIETY  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 


then,  in  the  later  and  sadder  stage,  actually 
courted  and  welcomed  as  a  friend.  It  is  pit- 
inil  to  witness  the  loftiest  minds  and  the 
brightest  wits  reduced  to  the  most  barren  and 
lugubrious  of  topics ;  talking  of  old  age  at 
eeven-and-forty  :  urging  a  fellow-sufferer  to 
?tutf  himself  with  Morello  cherries,  in  order 
to  develop  a  crisis  in  the  malady ;  or  rejoic- 
ing with  him  over  the  cheering  prospect  that 
t!»e  gout  at  length  showed  symptons  of  being 
aKjut  to  do  its  duty.  It  spoke  well  for 
George  the  Third's  common-sense  that  he 
never  would  join  in  the  congratulations  which 
his  ministers  eagerly  and  unanimously  be- 
stowed upon  any  of  their  number  who  was 
condemned  to  list  slippers  and  a  Bath  chair. 
••  People  tell  me,"  said  his  Majesty,  "  that 
the  gout  is  very  wholesome ;  but  I,  for  one, 
c^n  never  believe  it,': 

As  far  as  he  was  himself  concerned,  the 
ling  had  no  occasion  to  adopt  any  such  des- 
porate  medical  theory.  He  applied  to  the 
management  of  his  own  health  a  force  of  will 
nnd  an  independence  of  judgment  which 
greater  men  than  he  too  seldom  devote  to  that 
homely  but  most  difficult  task.  His  imagina- 
tion had  been  profoundly  impressed  by  the 
«ight  of  his  uncle,  the  Duke  of  Cumberland, 
dying  at  forty-four  of  a  complication  of  dis- 
erises  aggravated  or  caused  by  an  excessive 
c  irpulence,  which  the  vigorous  habits  of  a 
s-'ldier  who  entertained  a  soldier's  dislike  to 
rules  of  diet  had  altogether  failel  to  keep  in 
check.  From  that  time  forward  George  the 
Third  observed  a  rigid  temperance,  which 
might  not  have  been  meritorious  in  a  religious 
recluse,  but  was  admirable  when  practised 
»mi.l  the  temptations  of  a  court  by  one  who 
husbanded  his  bodily  powers  for  the  sake  of 
hU  studies.  He  never  allowed  himself  to  be 
complimented  on  hU  abstinence.  "  'Tis  no 
virtue,"  he  said.  "  I  only  prefer  eating  plain 
and  little  to  growing  sickly  and  infirm."  He 
would  ride  in  all  weathers  from  Kew  or  Wind- 
sor to  St.  James's  palace,  and  dress  for  a 
levee,  at  which  he  gave  every  individual  pre- 
sent some  token  of  his  favor  or  displeasure. 
Then  he  would  assist  at  a  privy  council  or  do 
business  with  his  ministers  till  six  in  the 
evening,  take  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  few  slices  of 
bread-and-butter  without  sitting  down  at 
table,  and  drive  back  into  Berkshire  by  lamp- 
light. In  his  recreations  he  was  more  hardy 
and  energetic  even  than  in  his  labors.  On 
hunting-days  he  remained  in  the  saddle  from 
eight  in  the  morning  till  the  approach  of 
night  sent  him  home  to  a  jug  of  hot  barley- 
water,  which  he  in  vain  endeavored  to  induce 
)t«s  attendants  to  share  with  him.  His  gen- 
tlemen in  waiting  listed  n  'thing  of  the  lux- 
ury which  the  humble  world  presumes  to  be 


the  reward  of  courtiers,  and  not  very  much  of 
the  comfort  on  which  an  Englishman  of  rank 
reckons  as  his  birthright.     Doors  and    win- 
dows so  habitually  open  that  a  maid  of  honor 
encountered     five     distinct     and      thorough 
draughts  on  the  way  from  her  own  room   to 
the  queen's  boudoir :    expeditions    on    foot 
across  country  for  ten  miles  on  end,  without 
shirking  a  ploughed  field  or  skirting  a  patch 
of  turnips ;  early  prayers  in  winter,    with  a 
j  congregation  dwindling  daily  as  the  mornings 
]  grew  colder  and   darker,  until   by  Christmas 
i  the  king  and  his  equerry  were  left  to  shiver 
i  through  the    responses    together.      Nothing 
'  would  have  retained  men  of  fortune  and  men 
!  of  pleasure  in  such  a  Spartan  service,  except 
the  strong  and  disinterested   affection   with 
which   George  the    Third    inspired    all  who 
had  to  do  with  him  in  his  character  of  master 
of  the  household. 

The  habit  and  morals  of  that  household 
were  those  which  prevailed  rather  in  the  mid- 
dle than  the  upper  classes  of  his  Majesty's 
subjects.  The  first  two  hundred  lines  of  the 
"  Winter's  Evening" — a  passage  as  much  be- 
yond Cowper's  ordinary  range  as  it  surpasses 
in  wealth  and  strength  of  thought,  and  in 
sustained  beauty  and  finish  of  execution,  all 
the  pictures  of  lettered  leisure  and  domestic 
peace  that  ever  tantalized  and  tempted  a  pol- 
itician and  a  Londoner — show  us  what  was 
then  the  aspect  of  a  modern  English  home, 
refined  by  culture,  and  ennobled  by  a  reli- 
gious faith  of  which  hardly  a  vestige  can  be 
traced  in  the  records  of  fashionable  and  min- 
isterial circles.  Cowper  has  elsewhere  left  .-» 
reference  to  the  astonishment  with  which  the 
official  world  witnessed  the  appearance  in  its 
midst  of  such  a  phenomenon  as 

"  one  who  wears  a  coronet  and  prays  " 

in  the  person  of  Lord  Dartmouth.  Voltaire, 
writing  in  1766,  pronounced  that  there  was 
no  more  religion  in  Great  Britain  than  the 
minimum  which  was  required  for  party  pur- 
poses. Commenting  on  this  passage  in  the 
first  blank  space  which  he  could  find,  as  was 
ever  his  custom  when  he  read.  Macaulay  re- 
marks, "  Voltaire  had  lived  with  men  of  wit 
and  fashion  during  his  visit  to  England,  and 
knew  nothing  of  the  feeling  of  the  grave  part 
of -mankind,  or  of  the  middle  classes.  He 
says  in  one  of  his  ten  thousand  tracts  that  no 
shopkeeper  in  London  believes  there  is  a 
hell.'-  Shopkeepers  who  had  listened  to 
Whitefield  and  the  Wesleys  for  thirty  years 
were  not  likely  to  be  skeptics  on  the  ques- 
tion of  future  punishment ;  but  men  of  fash- 
ion did  not  concern  themselves  about  the  be- 
liefs of  smaller  people.  There  is  just  as  much 


LONDON  SOCIETY  A  HUNDRED  TEARS  AGO. 


ami  as  little  trace  of  Christianity  in   Horace 

U'alpole  03  in  Pliny  the  younger. 

*          •**"***** 

When  the  Duke  of  Graflon  was  at  the  Trea- 
sury, the  seals  were  held  by  Lord  Weymouth, 
the  son  of  Earl  Granville's  daughter.  With 
more  than  his  grandfather's  capacity  for  li- 
quor, he  had  inherited  a  fair  portion  of  his 
abilities ;  and  anybody  who  cared  to  sit  up 
with  the  secretary  of  state  till  the  hours  were 
no  longer  small  might  obtain  a  fair  notion 
how  Carteret  used  to  talk  toward  the  end  of 
his  second  bottle.  It  would  have  been  well 
for  Lord  Weymouth  if  his  nights  had  been 
consume  1  exclusively  in  drinking,  for  he  was 
an  ardent  and  most  unlucky  gambler,  and  by 
the  age  of  one-and-thirty  he  had  played  away 
his  fortune,  his  credit,  and  his  honor.  His 
house  swarmed  with  bailiffs ;  and  when  he 
sought  refuge  at  the  club,  he  found  himself 
among  people  whose  money  he  had  tried  to 
win  without  having  any  of  his  own  to  lose, 
and  who  had  told  him  their  opinion  of  his 
conduct  in  terms  which  he  was  not  in  a  po- 
sition, and  (as  some  suspected)  not  of  a  na- 
ture, to  resent.  He  was  on  the  point  of  le- 
vanting for  France  when,  as  a  last  resource, 
his  grandfather's  friends  bethought  them  that 
he  had  not  yet  tried  public  life.  '•  He  must 
have  bread,  my  lord,"  wrote  Junius  ;  "or, 
rather,  he  must  have  wine  ;"  and,  as  it  was 
convenient  that  his  first  services  to  the  state 
should  be  rendered  at  a  distance  from  the 
scene  of  his  earlier  exploits,  he  was  appointed 
Lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland.  The  Dublin  trades- 
men, however,  did  not  relish  the  prospect 
of  having  a  bankrupt  nobleman  quartered 
upon  them  for  five  or  six  years,  in  order  that 
at  the  end  of  that  time  he  might  be  able  to 
show  his  face  again  at  White's.  The  spirit 
which,  fifty  years  before,  had  refused  to  put 
up  witn  the  bad  half-pence  of  the  dominant 
country  again  began  to  show  itself;  Lord 
Weymouth's  nomination  was  rescinded;  and, 
to  console  him  for  the  rebuff,  he  was  made 
Secretary  of  State  for  the  Northern  Depart- 
ment, anl  intrusted  with  half  the  work  that 
is  now  done  by  the  Foreign  Office,  and  with 
the  undivided  charge  of  the  internal  adminis- 
tration of  the  kingdom.  He  did  not  pay  his 
new  duties  the  compliment  .of  making  the 
very  slightest  alteration  in  his  habits.  He  i 
still  boozed  till  daylight,  and  dozed  into  the  ! 
afternoon ;  and  his  public  exertions  were 
confined  to  occasional  speeches,  which  his  • 
a  Imirers  extolled  as  preternaturally  saza-  , 
cious,  and  which  his  severest  critics  admitted 
to  be  pithy.  "If  I  paid  nobody,"  wrote 
Walpole,  "and  went  drunk  to  bed  every 
morning  at  six,  I  might  expect  to  be  called  i 
out  of  bed  by  two  in  the  afternoon  to  save 


the  nation  and  govern  the  House  of  Lords  by 
two  or  three  sentences  as  profound  and  short 
as  the  proverbs  of  Solomon." 

Lord  Weymouth's  successor  as  secretary  of 
state  was  the  most  eminent,  and  possibly  the 
most  disreputable,  member  of  the  Bedford 
connection.  The  Earl  of  Sandwich  was  ex- 
cellent as  the  chief  of  a  department.  He 
rose  about  the  time  that  his  predecessor  re- 
tired to  rest,  and  remained,  till  what  then 
was  a  late  dinner-hour,  closely  absorbed  in 
methodical  and  most  effectual  labor.  "  Sand- 
wich's industry  to  carry  a  point  in  view,'* 
says  Walpole,  "was  so  remarkable  that  the 
world  mistook  it  for  abilities;"  and  if  genius 
has  been  rightly  defined  as  the  capability  of 
taking  trouble,  the  world  was  not  far  wrong. 
Like  all  great  administrators,  he  loved  his 
own  way,  and  rarely  failed  to  get  it;  but 
outside  the  walls  of  his  office,  his  way  was 
seldom  or  never  a  good  one.  He  shocked 
even  his  own  generation  by  the  immorality 
of  his  private  life,  if  such  a  term  can  be  ap- 
plied to  the  undisguised  and  unabashed  liber- 
tinism that  he  carried  to  the  very  verge  of 
a  tomb  which  did  not  close  on  him  until  he 
had  misspent  three  quarters  of  a  century. 
He  survived  a  whole  succession  of  scandals, 
the  least  flagrant  of  which  would  have  been 
fatal  to  any  one  but  him.  Nothing  substan- 
tially injured  him  in  the  estimation  of  his 
countrymen,  because  no  possible  revelation 
could  make  them  think  worse  of  him  than 
they  thought  already.  When  he  was  ad- 
vanced in  age,  and  at  the  head  of  what  was 
just  then  the  most  important  branch  of  the 
public  service,  he  was  involved  in  one  of 
those  tragedies  of  the  police  court  by  means 
of  which  the  retribution  of  publicity  some- 
times overtakes  the  voluptuary  who  imagines 
that  his  wealth  has  fenced  him  securely  from 
the  consequences  of  his  sin.  But  no  coroner's 
inquest  or  cross-examination  at  the  Old  Bai- 
ley could  elicit  anything  which  would  add  a 
shade  to  such  a  character.  The  blood  had 
been  washed  from  the  steps  of  the  theatre ; 
the  gallows  had  been  erected  and  taken  down ; 
the  poor  creature  who 'had  been  the  object  of 
a  murderous  rivalry  was  quiet  in  her  grave ; 
and  the  noble  earl  was  still  at  the  Admiralty, 
giving  his  unhonored  name  to  the  discoveries 
of  our  most  celebrated  navigator,  and  fitting 
out  expeditions  which  might  reduce  the  Puri- 
tans of  New  England  and  the  Quakers  of 
Philadelphia  to  the  necessity  of  contributing 
to  the  taxes  out  of  which  he  replenished  his 
cellar  and  his  seraglio.  Corrupt,  tyrannical, 
and  brazen-faced  as  a  politician,  and  desti- 
tute, as  was  seen  in  his  conduct  to  Wilkes,  of 
that  last  relic  of  virtue,  fidelity  toward  the 
partners  of  his  secret  anl  pleasant  vices,  po- 


36 

litical  satire  itself  tried  in  vain  to  exaggerate 
the  turpitude  of  Sandwich. 

"  Too  infamous  to  have  a  friend ; 
Too  bad  for  bad  men  to  commend, 
Or  good  to  name  ;  beneath  whose  weight 
Earth  groans ;  who  hath  been  spared  by  fate 
Only  to  show,  on  mercy's  plan, 
How  far  and  long  God  bears  with  man," 

Even  this  masterpiece  of  truculence  was  no 
libel  upon  one  who  had  still  eight-and-twenty 
years  to  pass  in  living  up  to  the  character 
which  Churchill  had  given  him  in  his  wrath. 
"Such,"  cried  Junius,  "is  the  council  by 
which  the  best  of  sovereigns  is  advised,  and 
the  greatest  nation  upon  earth  governed." 
The  humiliation  and  resentment  with  which 
decent  Englishmen  saw  this  train  of  baccha- 
nals scouring  through  the  high  places  of  the 
state  is  a  key  to  the  unexampled  popularity 
of  that  writer  who,  under  twenty  different 
signatures  drawn  from  the  pages  of  Plutarch 
and  Tacitus,  lashed  the  self-will  and  self- 
delusion  of  the  king,  and  the  rapacity  and 
dissoluteness  of  his  ministers.  The  spectacle 
of  "the  Duke  of  Grafton,  like  an  apprentice, 
thinking  that  the  world  should  be  postponed 
to  a  horse-race,  and  the  Bedfords  not  caring 
what  disgraces  we  undergo,  while  each  of 
them  has  three  thousand  pounds  a  year  and 
three  thousand  bottles  of  claret  and  cham- 
pagne," did  more  than  his  own  somewhat 
grandiose  eloquence  and  over-labored  sarcasm 
to  endow  Junius  with  a  power  in  the  country 
second  only  to  that  of  Chatham,  and  a  fame 
hardly  less  universal  than  the  notoriety  of 
Wilkes.  But  in  the  eyes  of  George  the  Third 
the  righteous  anger  of  his  people  was  only 
another  form  of  its  loyalty.  Intent,  heart 
and  soul,  on  his  favorite  scheme  for  establish- 
ing a  system  of  personal  rule,  under  which 
all  the  threads  of  administration  should  cen- 
tre in  the  royal  closet,  he  entertained  an 
instinctive  antipathy  to  high-minded  and  in- 
dependent men  of  all  political  parties.  He 
selected  his  instruments  among  those  who 
were  willing  to  be  subservient  because  they 
had  no  self-respect  to  lose. 


TIIANATOPSIS. 


THANATOPSIS 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forma,  she  speak* 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  ia  aware.    When  thoughts 


Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Uver  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Jf  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

.nd  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  ueart;— 
So  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air,— 
Comes  a  still  voice -Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

'he  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

n  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
_'hy  image.    Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  clam 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  s'aalt  thou  go 

?o  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.    The  oak 

ihall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,— nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.    Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  —with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth— the  wise,  the  good. 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.    The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun ;  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and  poured  round  al\ 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.    The  golden  sun. 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.    All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.— Take  the  winga 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings— yet— the  dead  are  there : 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  bsojan.  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that  breath* 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come, 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.    As  the  long  train 
Of  a^es  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  sroes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 


PERLING  JOAN. 


37 


And  the  gweet  babe,  and  the  gray  headed  man, — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 

L'.y  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scotirsed  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

WlLLIAJI  CULLEN   BRYANT. 


PERLING   JOAN. 

Our  Laird  was  a  very  young  man  when  his 
father  died,  and  he  gaed  awa  to  France,  and 
Italy,  and  Flanders,  and  Germany,  imme- 
diately, and  we  saw  naething  o'  him  for 
three  years  ;  and  my  brother,  John  Baird, 
went  wi'  him  as  his  own  body-servant. 
When  that  time  was  gane  by,  our  Johnny 
cam  hame  and  tauld  us  that  Sir  Claud  wad 
be  here  the  next  day,  an'  that  he  was  bring- 
ing hame  a  foreign  lady  wi'  him — but  they 
were  not  married.  This  news  was  a  sair 
heart,  as  ye  may  suppose,  to  a'  that  were 
about  the  house  ;  and  we  were  just  glad  that 
the  auld  lady  was  dead  and  buried,  not  to 
hear  of  sic  doins.  But  what  could  we  do  ? 
To  be  sure  the  rooms  were  a'  put  in  order, 
and  the  best  chamber  in  the  hale  house  was 
got  ready  for  Sir  Claud  and  her.  John  tauld 
me,  when  we  were  alane  together  that  night, 
that  I  wud  be  surprised  wi'  her  beauty  when 
she  came. 

But  I  never  could  have  believed,  till  I  saw 
her,  that  she  was  sae  very  young — such  a 
mere  bairn,  I  may  say  ;  I'm  sure  she  was 
not  more  than  fifteen.  Such  a  dancing,  glee- 
some  bit  bird  of  a  lassie  was  never  seen  ;  and 
ane  could  not  but  pity  her  mair  than  blame 
her  for  what  she  had  done,  she  was  sae  visi- 
bly in  the  daftness  and  light-headedness  of 
youth.  Oh  how  she  sang,  and  played,  and 
galloped  about  on  the  wildest  horses  in  the 
stable,  as  fearlessly  as  if  she  had  been  a  man  ! 
The  house  was  full  of  fun  and  glee  ;  and  Sir 
Claud  and  she  were  both  so  young  and  so 
comely,  that  it  was  enough  to  break  ane's 
very  heart  to  behold  their  thoughtlessness. 
She  was  aye  sitting  on  his  knee,  wi'  her  arm 
about  his  neck ;  and  for  weeks  and  months 
this  love  and  merriment  lasted.  The  poor 
body  had  no  airs  wi'  her ;  she  was  just  as 
humble  in  her  speech  to  the  like  of  us.  as  if 
she  hud  been  a  cotter's  lassie.  I  believe  there 
was  not  one  of  us  that  could  help  liking  her, 


for  a'  her  faults.  She  was  a  glaiket  creature ; 
but  gentle  and  tender  hearted  as  a  perfect 
lamb,  and  sae  bonny  !  I  never  sat  eyes  upon 
her  match.  She  had  never  any  colour  but 
black  for  her  gown,  and  it  was  commonly 
satin,  and  aye  made  in  the  same  fashion ; 
and  a'  the  perling  about  her  bosom,  and  a 
great  gowden  chain  stuck  full  of  precious  ru- 
bies and  diamonds.  She  never  put  powder 
on  her  head  neither ;  oh  proud,  proud  was 
she  of  her  hair  !  I've  often  known  her  comb 
and  comb  at  it  for  an  hour  on  end  ;  and 
when  it  was  out  of  the  buckle,  the  bonry 
black  curls  fell  as  low  as  her  knee.  You 
never  saw  such  a  head  of  hair  since  ye  were 
born.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  auld 
Jew  in  Flanders,  and  ran  away  frae  the  house 
wi'  Sir  Claud,  ae  night  when  there  was  a 
great  feast  gaun  on, — the  Passover  supper, 
as  John  thought, — and  out  she  came  by  the 
back-door  to  Sir  Claud,  dressed  for  supper  wi' 
a'  her  braws. 

Weel,  this  lasted  for  the  maist  feck  of  a  year ; 
and  Perling  Joan  (for  that  was  what  the  ser- 
vants used  to  ca'  her,  frae  the  laces  about 
her  bosom),  Mrs.  Joan  lay  in  and  had  a 
lassie. 

Sir  Claud's  auld  uncle,  the  colonel,  was 
come  hame  from  America  about  this  time, 
and  he  wrote  for  the  laird  to  gang  in  to 
Edinburgh  to  see  him,  and  he  behoved  to  do 
this  ;  and  away  he  went  ere  the  bairn  Avas 
mair  than  a  fortnight  auld,  leaving  the  lady 
wi'  us. 

I  was  the  maist  experienced  body  about 
the  house,  and  it  was  me  that  got  chief  charge 
of  being  with  her  in  her  recovery.  The  poor 
young  thing  was  quite  changed  now.  Often 
and  often  did  she  greet  herself  blind,  blind, 
lamenting  to  me  about  Sir  Claud's  no  marry- 
ing her  ;  for  she  said  she  did  not  take  muckle 
thought  about  thae  things  afore ;  but  that 
now  she  had  a  bairn  to  Sir  Claud,  and  she 
could  not  bear  to  look  the  wee  thing  in  the 
face,  and  think  a'  body  would  ca'  it  a  bas- 
tard. And  then  she  said  she  was  come  of  as 
decent  folks  as  any  lady  in  Scotland,  and 
moaned  and  sobbit  about  her  auld  father 
and  her  sisters. 

But  the  colonel,  ye  see,  had  gotten  Sir 
Claud  into  the  town  ;  and  we  soon  began  to 
hear  reports  that  the  colonel  had  been  terri- 
bly angry  about  Perling  Joan,  and  threatened 
Sir  Claud  to  leave  every  penny  he  had  past 
him,  if  he  did  not  put  Joan  away,  and  marry 
a  lady  like  himself.  And  what  wi'  flceching, 
and  what  wi'  flyting,  sae  it  was  that  Sir 
Claud  went  away  to  the  north  wi'  the  col- 
onel, and  the  marriage  between  him  and  lady 
Juliana  was  agreed  upon,  and  everything 
settled. 


CLEOPATfeA. 


Everybody  about  the  house  had  heard  mair 
or  less  about  a'  this,  or  ever  a  word  of  it 
came  her  length.  But  at  last,  Sir  Claud  him- 
self writes  a  long  letter,  telling  her  what  a'  was 
to  be ;  and  offering  to  gie  her  a  heap  o'  siller 
and  send  our  John  over  the  sea  wi'  her,  to 
see  her  safe  back  to  her  friends — her  and 
her  baby,  if  she  liked  best  to  take  it  with 
her ;  but  if  not,  the  colonel  was  to  take  the 
bairn  hame,  and  bring  her  up  a  lady,  away 
from  the  house  here,  not  to  breed  auy  dis- 
peace. 

This  was  what  our  Johnny  said  was  to  be 
proposed  ;  for  as  to  the  letter  itself,  I  saw 
her  get  it,  and  she  read  it  twice  ower,  and 
flung  it  into  the  fire  before  my  face.  She 
read  it,  whatever  it  was,  with  a  wonderful 
composure ;  but  the  moment  after  it  was  in 
the  fire  she  gaed  clean  aff  into  a  fit,  and  she 
was  out  of  one  and  into  anither  for  maist 
part  of  the  forenoon.  Oh,  what  a  sight  she 
was !  It  would  have  melted  the  heart  of 
stone  to  see  her. 

The  first  thing  that  brought  her  to  herself 
wa*  the  sight  of  her  bairn.  I  brought  it, 
and  laid  it  on  her  knee,  thinking  it  would  do 
her  good  if  she  could  give  it  a  suck  ;  and  the 
poor  trembling  thing  did  as  I  bade  her ;  and 
the  moment  the  bairn's  mouth  was  at  the 
breast,  she  turned  as  calm  as  the  baby  itsel 
— the  tears  rapping  ower  the  cheeks,  to  be 
sure,  but  not  one  word  more.  I  never  heard 
her  either  greet  or  sob  again  a'  that  day. 

I  put  her  and  the  bairn  to  bed  that  night, 
but  nae  combing  and  curling  o'  the  bonnie 
black  hair  did  I  see  then.  However,  she 
seemed  very  calm  and  composed,  and  I  left 
them,  and  gaed  to  my  ain  bed,  which  was  in 
a  little  room  within  hers. 

Next  morning,  the  bed  was  found  cauld 
and  empty,  and  the  front  door  of  the  house 
standing  wide  open.  We  dragged  the  wa- 
ters, and  sent  man  and  horse  every  gate,  but 
ne'er  a  trace  of  her  could  we  ever  light  on, 
till  a  letter  came  twa  or  three  weeks  after, 
addressed  to  me,  frae  hersel.  It  was  just  a 
line  or  twa,  to  say  that  she  was  well,  and 
thanking  me,  poor  thing,  for  having  been 
attentive  about  her  in  her  down-lying.  It 
was  dated  frae  London.  And  she  charged 
me  to  say  nothing  to  anybody  of  having  re- 
ceived it.  But  this  was  what  I  could  not 
do ;  for  everybody  had  set  it  down  for  a  cer- 
tain thing,  that  the  poor  lassie  had  made 
away  baith  wi'  herself  and  the  bairn. 

I  dinna  weel  ken  whether  it  was  owing  to 
this  or  not,  but  Sir  Claud's  marriage  was  put 
aff  for  twa  or  three  years,  and  he  never  cam 
near  us  a*  that  while.  At  length  word  came 
that  the  wedding  was  to  be  put  over  directly : 
and  painters,  and  upholsterers,  and  I  know  not 


what  all,  came  and  turned  the  hale  house  up- 
side down,  to  prepare  for  my  lady's  liauie- 
coming.  The  only  room  that  they  never 
meddled  wi'  was  that  that  had  been  Mrs. 
Joan's  :  and  no  doubt  they  had  been  ordered 
what  to  do. 

Weel,  the  day  cam,  and  a  braw  sunny 
spring  day  it  was,  that  Sir  Claud  and  the 
bride  were  to  come  hame  to  the  Mains.  The 
grass  was  a'  new  niawn  about  the  policy,  and 
the  walks  sweepit,  and  the  cloth  laid  for 
dinner,  and  everybody  in  their  best  to  give 
them  their  welcoming.  John  Baird  came 
galloping  up  the  avenue  like  mad,  to  tell  us 
that  the  coach  was  amaist  within  sight,  and 
gar  us  put  oursels  in  order  afore  the  ha' 
steps.  We  were  a'  standing  there  in  our 
ranks,  and  up  came  the  coach  rattling  and 
driving,  wi'  I  dinna  ken  how  mony  servants 
riding  behind  it ;  and  Sir  Claud  lookit  out  at 
the  window,  and  was  waving  his  handker- 
chief to  us,  when,  just  as  fast  as  fire  ever 
flew  frae  flint,  a  woman  in  a  red  cloak  rush- 
ed out  from  among  the  auld  shrubbery  at  the 
west  end  of  the  house,  and  flung  herself  in 
among  the  horses'  feet,  and  the  wheels  gaed 
clean  out  ower  her  breast,  and  crushed 
her  dead  in  a  single  moment.  She  never 
stirred.  Poor  thing !  she  was  nae  Perling 
Joan  then.  She  was  in  rags — perfect  rags  all 
below  the  bit  cloak  ;  and  we  found  the  bnirn, 
rowed  in  a  checked  apron,  lying  just  behind 
the  hedge.  A  braw  heartsome  welcoming  for 
a  pair  of  young  married  folk  ! — The  History 
of  Matthew  Wald. 

JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKUABT,  LL.D. 


CLEOPATRA. 

WILLIAM  W.  STORY,  an  American  author  and  artist, 
was  born  at  Salem,  Mass.,  in  1819,  and  was  educated  for 
the  bar ;  his  father  having  been  an  eminent  jurist.  Af- 
ter publishing  several  works  on  jurisprudence,  W.  W. 
Story  took  up  his  residence  in  Rome,  and  became  widely 
known  as  a  sculptor  and  a  poet.  His  versatile  and  ar- 
dent mind  has  enabled  him  to  achieve  distinction  in  the 
widely  various  fields  of  legal  and  imaginative  literature, 
as  well  as  in  art.  In  1862  he  published  "  Roba  di  Roma," 
a  descriptive  and  critical  work  on  the  city  of  Rome.  Hi* 
"  Treatixe  on  the  Law  of  Contracts"  and  on  "  Personal 
Property"  have  gone  through  numerous  editions,  and 
he  has  published  five  volumes  of  poems. 
Here,  Charmian,  take  my  bracelets 

They  bar  with  a  purple  Btaln 
My  arms ;  turn  over  my  pillows, — 
They  are  hot  where  I  have  lain ; 
Open  the  lattice  wider, 

A  gauze  o'er  my  bosom  throw, 
And  let  me  inhale  the  odors 
That  over  the  garden  blow. 


CLEOPATRA. 


I  dreamed  I  was  with  my  Antony 

And  in  his  arms  I  lay  : 
Ah  we  '.  the  vision  has  vanished, — 

The  music  has  died  away, 
The  flame  and  the  perfume  have  perished — 

As  this  spiced  aromatic  pastille 
That  wound  the  blue  smoke  of  ita  odor, 

Is  now  but  an  ashy  hill. 

Scatter  upon  me  rose-leaves, 

They  cool  me  after. my  sleep, 
And  with  sandal  odors  fan  me 

Till  into  my  veins  they  creep , 
Reach  down  the  lute,  aud  play  me 

A  melancholy  tune, 
To  rhyme  with  the  dream  that  has  vanished, 

And  the  slumbering  afternoon. 

There,  drowsing  in  golden  sunlight, 

Loiters  the  slow,  smooth  Nile, 
Through  slender  papyri,  that  cover 

The  wary  crocodile. 
The  lotus  lolls  on  the  water, 

And  opens  its  heart  of  gold, 
And  over  ita  broad  leaf  pavement 

Never  a  ripple  is  rolled. 

The  twilight  breeze  is  too  lazy 

Those  feather}'  palms  to  wave, 
And  yon  little  cloud  is  as  motionless 

As  a  stone  above  a  grave. 

Ah  me !  this  lifeless  nature 

Oppresses  my  heart  and  brain ! 
0,  for  a  storm  and  thunder, 

For  lightning  and  wild  fierce  rain ! 
Fling  down  that  lute — I  hate  it ! 

Take  rather  his  buckler  and  sword, 
And  crash  them  and  clash  them  together 

Till  this  sleeping  world  is  stirred. 

Hark  !  to  my  Indian  beauty — 

My  cockatoo,  creamy  white, 
With  roses  under  his  feathers — 

That  flashes  across  the  light, 
Look  !  listen  !  as  backward  and  forward 

To  his  hoop  of  gold  he  clings, 
How  he  trembles,  with  crest  uplifted, 

And  shrieks  as  he  madly  swings ! 

O  cockatoo,  shriek  for  Antony ! 

Cry,  '•  Come,  my  love,  come  home !  ** 
Shriek,  "  Antony '.  Antony !  Antony ! " 

Till  he  hears  you  even  in  Rome. 

There— leave  me,  and  take  from  my  chamber 

That  stupid  little  gazelle, 
With  its  bright  black  eyes  so  meaningless, 

And  its  silly  tinkling  bell ! 
Take  him— my  nerves  he  vexes — 

The  thing  without  blood  or  brain, 
Or,  by  the  body  of  Isis, 

I'll  snap  his  neck  in  twain ! 


Leave  me  to  gaze  at  the  landscape 

Mistily  stretching  away,  * 

Where  the  afternoon's  opaline  tremors 

O'er  the  mountains  quivering  play; 
Till  the  fiercer  splendor  of  sunset 

Pours  from  the  west  ita  fire, 
Aud  melted,  as  in  a  crucible, 

Their  earthly  forms  expire ; 

And  the  bald  blear  skull  of  the  desert 
With  glowing  mountains  is  crowned, 

That,  burning  like  molten  jewels, 
Circle  its  temples  round. 

I  will  lie  and  dream  of  the  past  time, 

./Eons  of  thought  away, 
And  through  the  jungle  of  memory 

Loosen  my  fancy  to  play ; 
When  a  smooth  and  velvety  tiger, 

Ilibbed  with  yellow  and  black, 
Supple  and  cushion-footed, 

I  wandered  whore  never  the  track 
Of  a  human  creature  had  rustled 

The  silence  of  mighty  woods, 
And,  fierce  in  a  tyrannous  freedom, 

I  knew  but  the  law  of  my  moods. 
The  elephant,  trumpeting,  started 

When  he  heard  my  footstep  near, 
And  the  spotted  giraffes  fied  wildly 

In  a  yellow  cloud  of  fear. 
I  sucked  in  the  noontide  splendor 

Quivering  along  the  glade, 
Or  yawning,  panting,  aud  dreaming, 

Rasked  in  the  tamarisk  shade, 
Till  1  heard  my  wild  mate  roaring, 

As  the  shadows  of  night  came  on 
To  brood  in  the  trees'  thick  branches, 

And  the  shadow  of  sleep  was  gone ; 
Then  I  roused  and  roared  in  answer, 

And  unsheathed  from  my  cushioned  feet 
My  curving  claws,  and  stretched  me 

And  wandered  my  mate  to  greet. 
We  toyed  in  the  amber  moonlight, 

Upon  the  warm  flat  sand, 
And  struck  at  each  other  our  massive  arm*-— 

How  powerful  he  was  and  grand ! 
His  yellow  eyes  flashed  fiercely 

As  he  crouched  and  gazed  at  mo, 
And  his  quivering  tail,  like  a  serpent, 

Twitched  curving  nervously ; 
Then  like  a  storm  he  seized  me, 

With  a  wild,  triumphant  cry, 
And  we  met  as  two  clouds  in  heaven 

When  the  thunders  before  them  fly ; 
We  grappled  and  struggled  together, 

For  his  love,  like  his  rage,  was  rude; 
And  his  teeth  in  the  swelling  folds  of  my  neck 

At  times  in  our  play,  drew  blood. 
Often  another  suitor — 

For  I  was  flexile  and  fair — 
Fought  for  me  in  the  moonlight, 

While  1  lay  crouching  thera, 


40 


A  BATTLE  PICTURE. 


Till  his  blood  was  drained  by  the  desert ; 

And,  ruffled  with  triumph  and  power. 
He  licked  me  and  lay  beside  me 

To  breath  him  a  vast  half-hour; 
Then  down  to  the  fountain  we  loitered, 

Where  the  antelopes  came  to  drink, — 
Like  a  bolt  we  sprang  upon  them, 

Ere  they  had  time  to  shrink. 
We  drank  their  Wood  and  crushed  them, 

And  tore  them  limb  from  limb, 
And  the  hungriest  lion  doubted 

Ere  he  disputed  with  him. 

That  was  a  'Jfe  to  live  for! 

Not  tl>t»  weak  human  life, 
With  to  frivolous,  bloodless  passions. 

Its  poor  and  petty  strife ! 
Coirf  to  my  arms,  my  hero, 

Thp  shadows  of  twilight  grow 
A"v^  (he  tiger's  ancient  fierceness 

In  my  veins  begins  to  flow, 
^cme  not  cringing  to  sue  me ! 

Take  me  with  triumph  and  power, 
As  a  warrior  storms  a  fortress  I 

I  will  not  shrink  or  cower. 
Come  as  you  came  in  the  desert, 

Ere  we  were  women  and  men, 
When  the  tiger  passions  were  in  us, 

And  love  as  you  loved  me  then  1 


A  BATTLE  PICTURE. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  battery  take  position  ? 
It  hasn't  the  thrill  of  a  cavalry  charge,  nor 
the  grimness  of  a  line  of  bayonets  moving 
slowly  and  determinedly  on,  but  there  is  a 
peculiar  excitement  about  it  that  makes  old 
veterans  rise  in  the  saddle  and  cheer.  We 
have  been  fighting  at  the  edge  of  the  woods. 
Every  cartridge  box  has  been  emptied  once 
and  more,  and  a  fourth  of  the  brigade  has 
melted  away  in  dead,  wounded  and  missing 
Not  a  cheer  is  heard  in  the  whole  brigade 
We  know  that  we  are  being  driven  foot  by 
foot,  and  that  when  we  break  once  more  the 
line  will  go  to  pieces,  and  the  enemy  wil' 
pour  through  the  gap.  Here  comes  help 
Down  the  crowded  highway  gallops  a  battery 
withdrawn  from  another  position  to  save  ours 
The  field  fence  is  scattered  while  you  coulc 
count  thirty,  and  the  guns  rush  for  the  hil 
behind  us.  Six  horses  to  a  piece — threi 
riders  to  each  gun.  Over  dry  ditches  when 
R  farmer  could  not  drive  a  wagon,  througl 
clumps  of  bushes,  over  logs  a  foot  thick 
every  horse  on  a  gallop,  every  rider  lashin] 
his  team  and  yelling.  The  sight  behind  make 
u?  forget  the  foe  in  front.  The  guns  jump  tw 
feet  high  as  the  heavy  wheels  strike  rock  o 


but  not  a  horse  slackens  his  pace,  not  a 
cannoneer    loses    his   seat.       Six   guns,  six 
Caissons,  sixty  horses,  eighty   men  race  for 
he   brow   of  the   hill,    as  if  he  who  reached 
t  first  was  to  be  knighted.      A  moment  ago 
he  battery   was  a  confused  mob.     We  look 
igain  and  the  six  guns  are   in  position,  the 
letached  horses  hurrying  away,  the  ammuni- 
ion  chests  open,  and  along  our  line  runs  the 
:ommand,  "  Give  them  one  more  volley,  and 
fall    back     to     support     the     guns!'        We 
lave   scarcely   obeyed,  when,  boom  !    boom  .' 
boom !    opens   the   battery,  and  jets  of  fire 
ump  down  and  scorch  the  green  trees  under 
ivhich  we  fought  and  despaired.      The  shat- 
tered old  brigade  has  a  chance  to  breathe  for 
:he  first  time  in  three  hours   as   we   form  a 
line  of  battle  behind  the  guns  and  lie  down. 
What   grim,    cool   fellows   those   cannoneers 
are  !     Every  man  is  a  perfect  machine.     Bul- 
lets plash  dust  into  their   faces,  but  they  do 
not  wince.     Bullets   sing   over   and   around 
them,  but  they  do   not   dodge.      There  goes 
one  to  the  earth,  shot   through  the  head  as 
he  sponged  his  gun.      The  machinery  loses 
just  one  beat — misses  one  cog   in  the  wheel, 
and  then  works  away  again  as  before.    Every 
gun  is  using   short-fuse   shell.     The   ground 
shakes  and  trembles — the  roar  shuts  out  all 
sound  from  a  battle   line   three   miles  long, 
and  the  shells  go  shrieking  into  the  swamp 
to  cut  trees  short  off — to  mow    great  gaps  in 
the    bushes — to   hunt   out  and    shatter   ami 
mangle   men   until   their   corpses  cannot  be 
recognised  as  human.      You   would   think  a 
tornado  was  howling  through  the  forest,  fol- 
lowed by   billows  of  fire,    and  yet  men  live 
through   it — ay !    press   forward   to   capture 
the    battery !      We    can    hear   their   shouts 
as  they  form  for  the  rush.      Now   the   shells 
are  changed  for  grape  and  cannister.  and  the 
guns  are  served  out   so  fast  that    ail  reports 
blend  into  one  mighty  roar.      The  shriek  of 
a  shell  is  one  of  the  wickedest  sounds  in  war. 
but  nothing  makes  the   flesh    crawl   like  the 
demoniac  singing,   purring,  whistling  grape 
shot,  and  the  serpent-like  hiss   of  cannister. 
Men's  legs  and  arms  are   not   shot   through, 
but  torn  off.     Heads   are   torn   from   bodies, 
and  bodies  cut  in   two.      A  round   shot   or 
shell  takes  two  men  out    of  the   ranks   as  it 
crashes  through.     Grape  and  cannister  mow 
a  swathe  and  pile  the   dead  on   top  of  each 
other.     Through  the  smoke  we  see  a  swarm 
of  men.     It  is  not  a  battle  line,  but  a  mob  of 
men  desperate  enough  to  bathe   their  bayo- 
nets in  the  flame  of  the  guns.     The  guns  leap 
from  the  ground  almost,  as  they  are  depress- 
ed on  the  foe,  and  shrieks,  and  screams,  and 
shouts  blend  into  one  awful  and   steady  cry. 
Twenty  men  out  of  the  battery   are  "down. 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  A  DAY. 


41 


and  the  firing  is  interrupted.  The  foe  ac- 
cepts it  as  a  sign  of  wavering,  and  come  rush- 
ing on.  They  are  not  ten  feet  away  when 
the  guns  give  them  a  last  shot.  That  dis- 
charge picks  living  men  off  their  feet,  and 
throws  them  into  the  swamp  a  blackened, 
and  bloody  mass.  Up  now,  as  the  enemy  are 
among  the  guns  !  There  is  a  silence  of  ten 
seconds,  and  then  the  flash  and  roar  of  more 
than  3000  muskets,  and  a  rush  forward  with 
bayonets.  For  what  ?  Neither  on  the  right, 
nor  left,  nor  in  front  of  us  is  a  living  foe ! 
There  are  corpses  around  us  which  have 
been  struck  by  three,  four,  and  even  six  bul- 
lets, and  nowhere  on  this  acre  of  ground  is  a 
wounded  man  !  The  wheels  of  the  guns  can- 
not move  until  the  blockade  of  the  dead  is  re- 
moved. Men  cannot  pass  from  caisson  to  gun 
without  climbing  over  windrows  of  dead. 
Every  gun  and  wheel  is  smeared  with  blood 
— every  foot  of  grass  has  its  horrible  stain. — 
Detroit  Free  Press. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  JOURNEY  OF    A  DAY, 

A    PICTURE    OF    HITMAN    LIFE  J    THE    STORY    OF 
OBIDAH. 

Obidih,  the  son  of  Abensina,  left  the  car- 
avansera  early  in  the  morning,  and  pursued 
his  journey  through  the  plains  of  Indostan. 
He  was  fresh  and  vigorous  with  rest ;  he  was 
animated  with  hope ;  he  was  incited  by  de- 
sire ;  he  walked  swiftly  forward  over  the  val- 
leys, and  saw  the  hills  gradually  rising  be- 
fore him.  As  he  passed  along,  his  ears  were 
delighted  with  the  morning  song  of  the  bird 
of  paradise,  he  was  fanned  by  the  last  flutters 
of  the  sinking  breeze,  and  sprinkled  with  dew 
by  groves  of  spices;  he  sometimes  contem- 
plated the  towering  height  of  the  oak,  mon- 
arch of  the  hills ;  and  sometimes  caught  the 
gentle  fragrance  of  the  primrose,  eldest  daugh- 
ter of  the  spring:  all  his  senses  were  grati- 
fied, and  all  care  banished  from  the  heart. 

Thus  lie  went  on  till  the  sun  approached 
his  meridian,  and  the  increasing  heat  preyed 
upon  his  strength;  he  then  looked  round 
about  him  for  some  more  commodious  path. 
He  saw,  on  his  right  hand,  a  grove  that  seem- 
ed to  wave  its  shades  as  a  sign  of  invitation; 
he  entered  it,  and  found  the  coolness  and  ver- 
dure irresistibly  pleasant.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, forget  whither  he  was  travelling,  but 
found  a  narrow  way  bordered  with  flowers, 
which  appeared  to  have  the  same  direction 
with  the  main  road,  and  was  pleased  that,  by 
the  happy  experiment,  he  had  found  means 
to  unite  pleasure  with  business,  and  to  gain 


the  rewards  of  diligence,  without  suffering 
its  fatigues.  He,  therefore,  still  continued  to 
walk  for  a  time,  without  the  least  remission 
of  his  ardour,  except  that  he  was  sometimes 
tempted  to  stop  by  the  music  of  the  birds, 
whom  the  heat  had  assembled  in  the  shade, 
and  sometimes  amused  himself  with  plucking 
the  flowers  that  covered  the  banks  on  either 
side,  or  the  fririt  that  hung  upon  the  branches 
At  last  the  green  path  began  to  decline  from 
its  first  tendency,  and  to  wind  among  hills, 
and  thickets,  cooled  with  fountains,  and 
murmuring  with  water-falls.  Here  Obidah 
paused  for  a  time,  and  began  to  consider 
whether  it  were  longer  safe  to  forsake  the 
known  and  common  track ;  but  remembering 
that  the  heat  was  now  in  its  greatest  violence, 
and  that  the  plain  was  dusty  and  uneven,  he 
resolved  to  pursue  the  new  path,  which  he 
supposed  only  to  make  a  few  meanders,  in 
compliance  with  the  varieties  of  the  ground, 
and  to  end  at  last  in  the  common  road. 

Having  thus  calmed  his  solicitude,  he  re- 
newed his  pace,  though  he  suspected  that  he 
was  not  gaining  ground.  This  uneasiness  of 
his  mind  inclined  him  to  lay  hold  on  every 
new  object,  and  give  way  to  every  sensation 
that  might  sooth  or  divert  him.  He  listened 
to  every  echo,  he  mounted  every  hill  for  a 
fresh  prospect,  he  turned  aside  to  every  cas- 
cade, and  pleased  himself  with  tracing  the 
course  of  a  gentle  river  that  rolled  among  the 
trees,  and  watered  a  large  region  with  innu- 
merable circumvolutions.  In  these  amuse- 
ments the  hours  passed  away  uncounted,  his 
deviations  had  perplexed  his  memory,  and  he 
knew  not  towards  what  point  to  travel.  He 
stood  pensive  and  confused,  afraid  to  go  for- 
ward lest  he  should  go  wrong,  yet  conscious 
that  the  time  of  loitering  was  now  past. 
While  he  was  thus  tortured  with  uncertainty, 
the  sky  was  overspread  with  clouds,  the  day 
vanished  from  before  him,  and  a  sudden  tem- 
pest gathered  round  his  head.  He  was  now 
roused  by  his  danger,  to  a  quick  and  painful 
remembrance  of  his  folly ;  he  now  saw  how 
happiness  is  lost,  when  ease  is  consulted ; 
he  lamented  the  unmanly  impatience  that 
prompted  him  to  seek  shelter  in  the  grove, 
and  despised  the  petty  curiosity  that  led  him 
on  from  trifle  to  trifle.  While  he  was  thus 
reflecting,  the  air  grew  blacker,  and  a  clap  of 
thunder  broke  his  meditation. 

He  now  resolved  to  do  what  remained  yet 
in  his  power :  to  tread  back  the  ground  which 
he  had  passed,  and  try  to  find  some  issue 
where  the  wood  might  open  into  the  plain. 
He  prostrated  himself  on  the  ground,  and 
commended  his  life  to  the  Lord  of  nature. 
He  rose  with  confidence  and  tranquillity,  and 
pressed  on  with  his  sabre  in  his  hand,  lor  the 


42 


THE  PERFECT  PAINTER. 


beasts  of  the  desert  were  in  motion,  and  on 
every  hand  were  heard  the  mingled  howls  of 
r.tge  and  fear,  and  ravage  and  expiration ;  all 
the  horrors  of  the  darkness  and  solitude  sur- 
rounded him  ;  the  winds  roared  in  the  woods, 
and  the  torrents  tumbled  from  the  hills. 

Work'd  into  sudden  rage  by  wint'ry  show'rs, 
Down  the  steep  hill  the  roaring  torrent  pours; 
The  mountain  shepherd  hears  the  distant  noise, 

Thus  forlorn  and  distressed,  he  wandered 
through  the  wild,  without  knowing  whither 
he  was  going,  or  whether  he  was  every  mo- 
ment drawing  near  to  safety  or  to  destruction. 
At  length,  not  fear,  but  labour,  began  to  over- 
come him  ;  his  breath  grew  short,  and  his 
knees  trembled,  and  he  was  on  the  point  of 
lying  down  in  resignation  to  his  fate,  when 
he  beheld  through  the  brambles  the  glimmer 
of  a  taper.  He  advanced  towards  the  light, 
and  finding  that  it  proceeded  from  the  cottage 
of  a  hermit,  he  called  humbly  at  the  door,  and 
obtained  admission.  The  old  man  set  before 
him  such  provisions  as  he  had  collected  for 
himself,  on  which  Obidali  fed  with  eagerness 
and  gratitude. 

When  the  repast  was  over,  ''Tell  me,"  said 
the  hermit,  "by  what  chance  thou  hast  been 
brought  hither;  I  have  been  now  twenty 
years  an  inhabitant  of  the  wilderness,  in  which 
I  never  saw  a  man  before."  Obidah  then  re- 
lated the  occurrences  of  his  journey,  without 
any  concealment  or  palliation. 

"Son,"  said  the  hermit,  'let  the  errors  and 
follies,  the  dangers  and  escapes  of  this  day, 
sink  deep  into  thy  heart.  Remember,  my 
son,  that  human  life  is  the  journey  of  a  day. 
We  rise  in  the  morning  of  youth,  full  of  vig- 
our, and  full  of  expectation  ;  we  set  forward 
with  spirit  and  hope,  with  gaiety  and  with 
diligence,  and  travel  on  a  while  in  the  strait 
road  of  piety  towards  the  mansions  of  rest. 
In  a  short  time  we  remit  our  fervour,  and  en- 
deavour to  find  some  mitigation  of  our  duty, 
and  some  more  easy  means  of  obtaining  the 
same  end.  We  then  relax  our  vigour,  and 
resolve  no  longer  to  be  terrified  with  crimes 
at  a  distance,  but  rely  upon  our  own  con- 
stancy, and  venture  to  approach  what  we  re- 
solved never  to  touch.  We  thus  enter  the 
bowers  of  ease,  and  repose  in  the  shades  of 
security.  Here  the  heart  softens,  and  vigi- 
lance subsides ;  we  are  then  willing  to  en- 
quire whether  another  advance  cannot  be 
made,  and  whether  we  may  not,  at  least,  turn 
our  eyes  upon  the  gardens  of  pleasure.  We 
approach  them  with  scruple  and  hesitation ; 
we  enter  them,  but  enter  timorous  and  trem- 
bling, and  always  hope  to  pass  thrqugh  them 
without  losing  the  road  of  virtue,  which  we, 


for  a  while,  keep  in  our  sight,  and  to  which 
we  propose  to  return.  But  temptation  suc- 
ceeds temptation,  and  one  compliance  pre- 
pares us  for  another;  we  in  time  lose  the 
happiness  of  innocence,  and  solace  our  dis- 
quiet with  sensual  gratifications.  By  degrees 
we  let  fall  the  remembrance  of  our  original 
intention,  and  quit  the  only  adequate  object 
of  rational  desire.  We  entangle  ourselves  in 
business,  immerge  ourselves  in  luxury,  and 
rove  through  the  labyrinths  of  inconstancy, 
till  the  darkness  of  old  age  begins  to  invade 
us,  and  disease  and  anxiety  obstruct  our  way. 
We  then  look  back  upon  our  lives  with  hor- 
ror, with  sorrow,  with  repentance  ;  and  wish, 
but  too  often  vainly  wish,  that  we  had  not 
forsaken  the  ways  of  virtue.  Happy  are 
they,  my  son,  who  shall  learn  from  thy 
example  not  to  despair,  but  shall  remem- 
ber, that  though  the  day  is  past,  and  their 
strength  is  wasted,  there  yet  remains  one  ef- 
fort to  be  made ;  that  reformation  is  never 
hopeless,  nor  sincere  endeavours  ever  unas- 
sisted ;  that  the  wanderer  may  at  length  re- 
turn, after  all  his  errors ;  and  that  he  who 
implores  strength  and  courage  from  above, 
shall  find  danger  and  difficulty  give  way  be- 
fore him.  Go  now,  my  son,  to  thy  repose ; 
commit  thyself  to  the  care  of  Omnipotence  ; 
and  when  the  morning  calls  again  to  toil, 
begin  anew  thy  journey  and  thy  life." — Tht 
Rambler. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

(Called  "  The  Perfect  Painter.") 
TO   HIS   WIFE. 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  my  Lucrezia ;  bear  with  me  for  once : 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart  ? 
I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear, 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.    Will  it  ?  tenderly  ? 
Oh,  I'll  content  him,— but  to-morrow,  Love  '. 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 
As  if— forgive  now— should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole", 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly,  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  aa  ever.    Let  us  try. 


THE  PERFECT  PAINTER. 


To-morrow  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this ! 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 

And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 

Don't  count  the  time  lost,  either ;  you  must  servt 

For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require — 

It.  saves  a  model.    So '.  keep  looking  so — 

My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds  ! 

— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 

Kven  to  put  the  pearl  there  !  oh,  so  sweet — 

My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 

Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his, 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 

While  she  looks— no  one's  :  very  dear,  no  less  ! 

You  smile  ?  why  there's  my  picture  ready  made, 

There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony  I 

A  common  gray  ness  silvers  everything, — 

All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

— You  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 

(That's  gone  you  know), — but  I,  at  every  point ; 

Sly  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 

There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top; 

That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 

Holds  the  trees  safor,  huddled  more  inside  : 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden  ;  days  decrease 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything, 

Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.    Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How  strange,  now,  looks  the  life  He  makes  us  lead ! 

So  free  we»seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are ! 

I  feel  He  laid  the  fetter :  let  it  lie ' 

This  chamber  for  example  —turn  your  head  — 

All  that's  behind  us!  you  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak  ; 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

— It  is  the  thing,  Love!  so  such  things  should  be — 

Behold  Madonna,  I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know. 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  over  wish  so  deep  — 

Do  easily,  too  -when  1  say  perfectly, 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps :  yourself  are  judge 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week, 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it, 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past— 

I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives 

— Dream?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do, 

And  fail  in  doing.    I  could  count  twenty  such 

On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 

Who  strive— you  don't  know  how  the  others  striva 

To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 

Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, — 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Some  one  says, 

(I  know  his  name,  no  matter)  so  much  less: 

Well,  loss  is  more,  Lucrozia!  T  am  judged. 

There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In  their  vexed,  beating,  stuffed  and  stopped-up  brain, 


Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  then  goes  on  to  prompt 

This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of  mine. 

Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I  kuuw, 

Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me, 

Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men  !  at  a  word  — 

Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 

I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 

Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken  -what  of  that?  or  else, 

Kightly  tnicoil  and  well  ordered —what  of  that? 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care  ? 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what's  a  Heaven  for  ?  all  is  silver-grey, 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  heart— the  worse  . 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain — 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh, 

"  Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 

Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world  !"    No  doubt, 

Yonder's  a  work,  now,  of  that  famous  youth 

The  Urbinato  who  died  five  years  ago. 

('Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 

Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 

Reaching,  that  Heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 

Above  and  through  his  art— for  it  gives  way  ; 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put -and  there  again  — 

A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 

Its  body,  so  to  speak  :  its  soul  is  right, 

He  means  right  — that,  a  child  may  understand. 

Still,  what  an  arm  .'  and  I  could  alter  it. 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch  — 

Out  of  me  I  out  of  me  .'    And  wherefore  out  ? 

Had  you  enjoined  them  on  mo,  given  me  soul. 

Wo  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you. 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think — 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you  -oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brew, 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth. 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare  — 

Had  you,  with  those  the  same,  but  brought  a  nvnd! 

Some  women  do  so.    Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

"  God  and  the  glory .  never  care  for  gain. 

The  Present  by  the  Future,  what  is  that? 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Angelo — 

Rafael  is  waiting.     Up  to  God  all  three  '. " 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.    So  it  seems — 

Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  overrules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 

The  rest  avail  not.    Why  do  I  need  you? 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Angelo? 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not — 

And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive: 

Yet  the  will's  somewhat — somewhat,  too,  the  power— 

And  thus  we  half-mnn  struggle.     At  the  end, 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 


44 


THE  PERFECT  PAINTER. 


Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 

That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 

1-oor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 

1  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside  ; 

But  they  speak  sometimes  ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 

Well  may  they  speak !    That  Francis,  that  first  time, 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontaineblear  ! 

I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  gl  jund, 

Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 

In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look, — 

One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 

Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile, 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 

The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 

1  paintiug  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 

All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 

Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  soula 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts, — 

And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 

This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 

To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward  t 

A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  day  ? 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless— but  I  know — 

Tis  done  and  past;  'twas  right,  my  instinct  said: 

Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  grey, 

And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 

Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way  ? 

You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 

The  triumph  was,  to  have  ended  there ;  then  if 

1  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost  ? 

Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine ! 

'•  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that — 

The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 

But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife " 

Men  will  excuse  me.    I  am  glad  to  judge 

Both  pictures  in  your  presence :  clearer  grows 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 

For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 

Said  one  day  An?elo,  his  very  self, 

To  Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  . 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thought* 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 

Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

"  Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 

Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  h  >w, 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kin^g 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours  1 " 

To  Rafael's ! — And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

I  hardly  dare— yet  only  you  to  see, 

Give  the  chalk  here  -quick,  thus  the  line  should  go ! 

Ay,  but  the  soul!  he's  Rafael !  rub  it  out ! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he  ?  why.  who  but  Michael  Angelo  ? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those?) 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost,— 

la,  whether  you're  -not  grateful-but  more  pleased. 


Well  let  me  think  so.    And  yon  smile  indeed  I 

This  hour  has  been  an  hour!    Another  smile? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend  ? 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now?  there's  a  star; 

Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall. 

The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 

Come  from  the  window,  Love, — Come  in,  at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 

We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me.     Oft  at  nights 

When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 

The  walls  become  illuminated,  briclt  from  brick 

Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 

That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with  ! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go  ? 

That  Cousin  here  again  ?  he  waits  outside  ? 

Must  see  j-ou — you,  and  not  with  me?    Those  loans? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled  for  that? 

Well,  let  smiles  buy  me  !  have  you  more  to  spend  ? 

While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 

Are  left  me,  work's  my  ware,  and  what's  it  worth? 

I'll  pay  my  fancy.    Only  let  me  sit 

The  grey  remainder  of  the  evening  out. 

Idle  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 

One  picture,  just  one  more— The  Virgin's  face, 

Not  yours  this  time !  I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them— that  is  Michael  Angelo— 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you  ?    To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend.    . 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand— there,  there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs ;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.     Beside, 

What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about, 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff. 

Love,  does  that  please  you  '    Ah,  but  what  does  ha, 

The  Cousin :  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it  ? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis ! — it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  ginned,  and  all  is  said, 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich !    Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  live  poor,  and  poor  they  died  : 
And  I  have  laboured  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures -let  him  try  I 
No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a  balance.    Yes, 
Yon  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.    What  would  one  have  ? 
In  Heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chan<»- 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 


THE  STORM  AND  SHIPWRECK. 


45 


For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Angelo  and  me 
To  cover— the  three  first  without  a  wife 
While  I  have  mine !    So— still  they  overcome 
Because  there's  still  Lucrezia,— as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle  I    Go,  my  Love. 

ROBERT  BBOWNINO. 


THE  STORM  AND  SHIPWRECK. 

FROM    DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

It  was  a  murky  confusion — here  and  there 
blotted  with  a  color  like  the  color  of  the 
smoke  from  damp  fuel — of  flying  clouds  toss- 
ed up  into  most  remarkable  heaps,  suggesting 
greater  heights  in  the  clouds  than  there 
were  depths  below  them  to  the  bottom  of  the 
deepest  hollows  in  the  earth,  through  which 
the  wild  moon  seemed  to  plunge  headlong, 
as  if,  in  a  dread  disturbance  of  the  laws  of 
nature,  she  ha  1  lost  her  way  and  were  fright- 
ened. There  ha  1  been  a  wind  ah1  day  ;  and 
it  was  rising  then,  with  an  extraordinarily 
great  sound,  la  another  hour  it  had  much 
increase  1,  and  the  sky  was  more  overcast, 
and  it  blew  hard. 

But  as  the  night  advanced,  the  clouds  closing 
in  and  densely  overspreading  the  whole  sky, 
then  very  dark,  it  came  on  to  blow,  harder 
and  harder.  It  still  increased,  until  our 
horses  could  scarcely  face  the  wind.  Many 
times  in  the  dark  part  of  the  night  (it  wag 
then  late  in  September,  when  the  nights  were 
not  short),  the  leaders  turned  about,  or  came 
to  a  deal  stop  ;  and  we  were  often  in  serious 
apprehensions  that  the  coach  would  be  blown 
over.  Sweeping  gusts  of  rain  came  up  before 
this  storm,  like  showers  of  steel ;  and,  at 
those  times,  when  there  was  any  shelter  of 
trees  or  lee  walls  to  be  got,  we  were  fain  to 
stop,  in  a  sheer  impossibility  of  continuing 
the  stru^le. 

When  the  day  broke,  it  blew  harder  and 
harder.  I  ha  1  been  in  Yarmouth  when  the 
seamen  said  it  blew  great  guns,  but  I  had 
never  known  the  like  of  this,  or  anything 
approaching  to  it.  We  came  to  Ipswich — 
very  late,  having  had  to  fight  every  inch  of 
ground  since  we  were  ten  miles  out  of  London : 
and  found  a  cluster  of  people  in  the  market- 
place, who  had  risen  from  their  beds  in  the 
night,  fearful  of  falling  chimneys.  Some  of 
these,  congregating  about  the  inn-yard  while 
we  changed  horses,  told  us  of  great  sheets  of 
lead  having  been  ripped  off  a  high  church- 
tower,  and  flung  into  a  bye-street,  which 
they  then  blocked  up.  Others  had  to  tell  of 
country  people,  coming  in  from  neighboring 
villages,  who  had  seen  great  trees  lying  torn 
out  of  the  earth,  and  whole  ricks  scattered 


about  the  roads  and  fields.      Still  there  was 
no  abatement  in  the  storm,  but  it  blew  harder. 

As  we  struggled  on,  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  sea,  from  which  the  mighty  wind  was 
blowing  dead  on  shore,  its  force  became  more 
and  more  terrific.  Long  before  we  saw  the 
sea,  its  spray  was  on  our  lips,  and  showered 
salt  rain  upon  us.  The  water  was  out,  over 
miles  and  miles  of  the  flat  country  adjacent 
to  Yarmouth  ;  and  every  sheet  and  puddle 
lashed  its  banks,  and  had  its  stress  of  little 
breakers  setting  heavily  towards  us.  When 
we  came  within  sight  of  the  sea,  the  waves 
on  the  horizon,  caught  at  intervals  above  the 
rolling  abyss,  were  like  glimpses  of  another 
shore  with  towers  and  buildings.  When  at 
last  we  got  into  the  town,  the  people  came 
out  to  their  doors,  all  aslant,  and  with  stream- 
ing hair,  making  a  wonder  of  the  mail  that 
had  come  through  such  a  night. 

I  put  up  at  the  old  inn  and  went  down  to 
look  at  the  sea  ;  staggering  along  the  street, 
which  was  strewn  with  sand  and  seaweed, 
and  with  flying  blotches  of  seafoam  ;  afraid 
of  falling  slates  and  tiles,  and  holding  by 
people  I  met,  at  angry  corners.  Coming 
near  the  beach,  I  saw,  not  only  the  boatman, 
but  half  the  people  of  the  town,  lurking  be- 
hind buildings ;  some,  now  and  then  braving 
the  fury  of  the  storm  to  look  away  to  sea, 
and  blown  sheer  out  of  their  course  in  trying 
to  get  zigzag  back. 

Joining  these  groups,  I  found  bewailing 
women  whose  husbands  were  away  in  her- 
ring or  oyster  boats,  which  there  was  too 
much  reason  to  think  might  have  foundered 
before  they  could  run  in  anywhere  for  safety. 
Grizzled  old  sailors  were  among  the  people, 
shaking  their  heads,  as  they  looked  from  wa- 
ter to  sky,  and  muttering  to  one  another ; 
shipowners,  excited  and  uneasy ;  children, 
huddling  together,  and  peering  into  older 
faces  ;  even  stout  mariners,  disturbed  and 
anxious,  leveling  their  glasses  at  the  sea 
from  behind  places  of  shelter,  as  if  they  were 
surveying  an  enemy. 

The  tremendous  sea  itself,  when  I  could 
find  sufficient  pause  to  look  at  it,  in  the  agi- 
tation of  the  blinding  wind,  the  flying  stones 
and  sand,  and  the  awful  noise,  confused  me. 
As  the  high  w.itery  walls  came  rolling  in, 
and,  at  their  highest,  tumbled  into  surf,  they 
looked  as  if  the  least  would  engulf  the 
town.  As  the  receding  wave  swept  back 
with  a  hoarse  roar,  it  seemed  to  scoop  out  a 
deep  cave  in  the  beach,  as  if  its  purpose 
were  to  undermine  the  earth.  When  some 
white-headed  billows  thundered  on,  and 
dashed  themselves  to  pieces  before  they 
reached  the  land,  every  fragment  of  the  late 
•whole  seemed  possessed  by  the  full  might  of 


THE  STORM  AND  SHIPWRECK. 


its  wrath,  rushing  to  be  gathered  to  the  com- 
position of  another  monster.  Undulating 
hills  were  changed  to  valleys,  undulating 
valleys  (with  a  solitary  storm-bird  sometimes 
ski  mining  through  them)  were  lifted  up  to 
hills ;  masses  of  water  shivered  and  shook 
the  beach  with  a  booming  sound ;  every  shape 
tumultuously  rolled  on,  as  soon  as  made,  to 
change  its  shape  and  place,  and  beat  another 
shape  and  place  away ;  the  ideal  shore  on 
the  horizon,  with  its  towers  and  buildings 
rose  and  fell ;  the  clouds  flew  fast  and  thick ; 
1  seemed  to  see  a  rending  and  upheaving  of 
all  nature. 

Not  finding  Ham  among  the  people  whom 
this  memorable  wind — for  it  is  still  remem- 
bered clown  there,  as  the  greatest  ever  known 
to  blow  upon  that  coast — had  brought  togeth- 
er. I  made  my  way  to  his  house.  It  was 
fihut ;  ami  as  no  one  answered  to  my  knock- 
ing, I  went,  by  backways  and  bye-lane,  to 
the  yard  where  he  worked.  I  learned  there 
that  he  had  gone  to  Lowestoft,  to  meet  some 
sadden  exigency  of  ship-repairing  in  which 
his  skill  was  required  ;  but  that  he  would  be 
back  to-morrow  morning,  in  good  time. 

I  went  back  to  the  inn ;  and  when  I  had 
washed  and  dressed,  and  tried  to  sleep,  but 
in  vain,  it  was  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
I  had  not  sat  five  minutes  by  the  coffee-rooin 
fire,  when  the  waiter  coming  to  stir  it,  as  an 
excuse  for  talking,  told  me  that  two  colliers 
had  gone  down,  with  all  hands,  a  few  miles 
away ;  and  that  some  other  ships  had  been 
seen  laboring  hard  in  the  Roads,  and  trying, 
in  great  distress,  to  keep  off  shore.  Mercy 
on  them,  and  on  all  poor  sailors,  said  he,  if 
we  had  another  night  like  the  last ! 

I  was  very  much  depressed  in  spirits : 
very  solitary ;  and  felt  an  uneasiness  in  Ham's 
not  being  there,  disproportionate  to  the  occa- 
sion. I  was  seriously  affected,  without  know- 
ing how  much,  by  late  events  ;  and  my  long 
exposure  to  the  fierce  wind  had  confused  me. 
There  was  that  jumble  in  my  thoughts  and 
recollections,  that  I  had  lost  the  clear  ar- 
rangcmcnt?  of  time  and  distance.  Thus,  if  I 
had  gone  out  into  the  town,  I  should  not 
have  been  surprised,  I  think,  to  encounter 
some  ono  who  I  knew  must  be  then  in  Lon- 
don. So  t-)  speak,  there  was  in  these  respects 
a  curhu  i  inattention  in  my  mind.  Yet  it 
was  busy,  too,  with  all  the  remembrances  the 
place  naturally  awakened ;  and  they  were 
particularly  distinct  and  vivid. 

In  this  state,  the  waiter's  dismal  intelli- 
gence a')out  the  ships  immediately  con- 
nected itself,  without  any  effort  of  my  volition, 
with  my  uneasiness  about  Ham.  I  was  per- 
Hua  Ic  1  that  1  had  an  apprehension  of  his  re- 
turning from  Lowestoft  by  sea,  arid  being 


lost.  This  grew  so  strong  with  me,  that  I 
resolved  to  go  back  to  the  yard  before  I  took 
my  dinner,  and  ask  the  boat-builder  if  he 
thought  his  attempting  to  return  by  sea  at  all 
likely  ?  If  he  gave  me  the  least  reason  to 
think  so,  I  would  go  over  to  Lowestoft  and 
prevent  it  by  bringing  him  with  me. 

I  hastily  ordered  my  dinner,  and  went 
back  to  the  yard.  I  was  none  too  soon  ;  for 
the  boat-builder,  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand, 
was  locking  the  yard-gate.  He  quite  laughed 
when  I  asked  him  the  question,  and  said 
there  was  no  fear ;  no  man  in  his  senses,  or 
out  of  them,  would  put  off  in  such  a  gale  of 
wind,  least  of  all  Ham  Feggotty,  who  had 
been  born  to  seafaring. 

So  sensible  of  this,  beforehand,  that  I  had 
really  felt  ashamed  of  doing  what  I  was  nev- 
ertheless impelled  to  do,  I  went  back  to  the 
inn.  If  such  a  wind  could  rise,  I  think  it 
was  rising.  The  howl  and  roar,  the  rattling 
of  the  doors  and  windows,  the  rumbling  in 
the  chimneys,  the  apparent  rocking  of  the 
very  house  that  sheltered  me,  and  the  prodig- 
ious tumult  of  the  sea,  were  more  fearful  than  in 
the  morning.  But  there  was  now  a  great 
darkness  besides  ;  and  that  invested  the  storm 
with  new  terrors,  real  and  fanciful. 

I  could  not  eat,  I  could  not  sit  still,  I  could 
not  continue  steadfast  to  anything.  Some- 
thing within  me  faintly  answering  to  the 
storm  without,  tossed  up  the  depths  of  my 
memory,  and  made  a  tumult  within  them. 
Yet  in  all  the  hurry  of  my  thoughts,  wild 
running  with  the  thundering  sea — the 
storm  and  my  uneasiness  regarding  Ham, 
were  always  in  the  foreground. 

My  dinner  went  away  almost  untasted, 
and  I  tried  to  refresh  myself  with  a  glass  or 
two  of  wine.  In  vain.  I  fell  into  a  dull 
slumber  before  the  fire,  without  losing  my 
consciousness,  either  of  the  uproar  out  of 
doors,  or  of  the  place  in  which  I  was.  Both 
became  overshadowed  by  a  new  and  indefi- 
nable horror  ;  and  when  I  awoke — or  rather 
when  I  shook  off  the  lethargy  that  bound  me 
in  my  chair — my  whole  frame  thrilled  with 
objectless  and  unintelligible  fear. 

I  walked  to  and  fro  ;  tried  to  rend  an  old 
gazetteer ;  listened  to  the  awful  noises  ;  look- 
ed at  faces,  scenes,  and  figures  in  the  fire. 
At  length,  the  steady  ticking  of  the  undis- 
turbed clock  on  the  wall  tormented  me  tc 
that  degree  that  I  resolved  to  go  to  bod. 

It  was  re-assuring,  on  such  a  night,  to  be 
told  that  some  of  the  inn-servants  had  agreed 
together  to  sit  up  until  morning.  I  went  (o 
bed  exceedingly  weary  and  heavy ;  but,  on 
my  lying  down,  all  such  sensations  van- 
ished as  if  by  magic,  and  I  was  broad  awaLe, 
with  every  sense  refined. 


THE  STORM  AND  SHIPWRECK. 


47 


For  hours  I  lay  there,  listening  to  the 
wind  and  water  ;  imagining,  now,  that  I 
heard  shrieks  out  at  sea ;  now,  that  I  dis- 
tinctly heard  the  firing  of  signal  guns  ;  and 
now.  the  fall  of  houses  in  the  town.  I  got 
up  several  times  and  looked  out ;  but  could 
see  nothing  except  the  reflection  in  the  win- 
dow-panes of  the  faint  candle  I  had  left 
burning,  and  of  my  own  haggard  face  looking 
in  at  me  from  the  black  void. 

At  length  my  restlessness  attained  to  such 
a  pitch,  that  I  hurried  on  my  clothes  and 
went  down  stairs.  In  a  large  kitchen,  where 
I  dimly  saw  bacon  and  ropes  of  onions  hang- 
ing from  the  beams,  the  watchers  were  clus- 
tered together,  in  various  attitudes,  about  a 
table,  purposely  moved  away  from  the  great 
chimney,  and  brought  near  the  door.  A 
pretty  girl,  who  had  her  ears  stopped  with 
her  apron,  and  her  eyes  upon  the  door, 
screamed  when  I  appeared,  supposing  me  to 
be  a  spirit ;  but  the  others  had  more  pres- 
ence of  mind,  and  were  glad  of  an  addition 
t)  their  company.  One  man,  referring  to 
the  topic  they  had  been  discussing,  asked  me 
whether  I  thought  the  souls  of  the  collier- 
crews  who  had  gone  down,  were  out  in  the 
storm  ? 

1  remained  there,  I  dare  say,  two  hours. 
Once  I  opened  the  yard-gato,  and  looked  in- 
to the  empty  street.  The  sand,  the  sea- 
weed, and  the  flakes  of  foam  were  driving 
by ;  and  I  was  obliged  to  call  for  assistance 
before  I  could  shut  the  gate  again,  and  make 
it  fast  against  the  wind. 

There  was  a  dark  gloom  in  my  solitary 
chamber,  when  I  at  length  returned  to  it ; 
but  I  was  tired,  now,  and,  getting  into  bed 
again,  fell — off  a  tower  and  down  a  precipice 
— into  the  depths  of  sleep.  I  have  an  im- 
pression that  for  a  long  time,  though  I  dream- 
ed of  being  elsewhere  and  in  a  variety  of 
scenes,  it  was  always  blowing  in  my  dream. 
At  length  I  lost  that  feeble  hold  upon  reality, 
and  was  engaged  with  two  dear  friends,  but 
who  they  were  I  don't  know,  at  th§  siege  of 
some  town  in  a  roar  of  cannonading. 

The  thunder  of  the  cannon  was  so  loud 
and  incessant  that  I  could  not  hear  something 
I  much  desired  to  hear,  until  I  made  a  great 
exertion  and  awoke.  It  was  broad  day — 
eight  or  nine  o'clock  ;  the  storm  raging,  in 
lieu  of  the  batteries ;  and  some  one  knock- 
ing and  calling  at  my  door. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  I  cried. 

"  A  wreck  !     Close  by  !" 

I  sprung  out  of  bed  and  asked  what  wreck? 

"  A  schooner,  from  Spain  or  Portugal,  laden 
with  fruit  and  wine.  Make  haste,  sir,  if  you 
want  to  see  her  !  It's  thought,  down  on  the 
beach,  she'll  go  to  pieces  every  moment." 


The  excited  voice'went  clamoring  along  the 
staircase ;  and  1  wrapped  myself  in  my 
clothes  as  quickly  as  I  could,  and  ran  into 
the  street. 

Numbers  of  people  were  there  before  me, 
all  running  in  one  direction,  to  the  beach,  i 
ran  the  same  way,  outstripping  a  good  many, 
and  soon  came  facing  the  wild  sea. 

The  wind  might  by  this  time  have  lulled  a 
little,  though  not  more  sensibly  than  if  the 
cannonading  I  had  dreamed  of  had  been  di- 
minished by  the  silencing  of  half  a  dozen 
guns  out  of  hundreds.  But  the  sea,  having 
upon  it  the  additional  agitation  of  the  whole 
night,  was  infinitely  more  terrific  than  when 
I  had  seen  it  last.  Every  appearance  it  had 
then  presented  bore  the  expression  of  being 
swelled;  and  the  height  to  which  the  break- 
ers rose,  and,  looking  over  one  another,  bore 
one  another  down,  and  rolled  in,  in  intermi- 
nable hosts,  was  most  appalling. 

In  the  difficulty  of  hearing  anything  but 
wind  and  waves,  and  in  the  crowd,  and  the 
unspeakable  confusion,  and  my  first  breath- 
less efforts  to  stand  against  the  weather,  I 
was  so  confused  that  I  looked  out  to  sea  for 
the  wreck,  and  saw  nothing  but  the  foaming 
heads  of  the  great  waves.  A  half-dressed 
boatman,  standing  next  to  me,  pointed  with 
his  bare  arm  (a  tattoo' d  arrow  on  it,  pointing 
in  the  same  direction)  to  the  left.  Then,  O, 
great  Heaven,  I  saw  it,  close  in  upon  us  ! 

One  mast  was  broken  short  off,  six  or 
eight  feet  from  the  deck,  and  lay  over  the 
side,  entangled  in  a  maze  of  sail  and  rigging ; 
and  all  that  ruin,  as  the  ship  rolled  and  beat 
— which  she  did  without  a  moment's  pause  and 
with  a  violence  quite  inconceivable — beat  the 
side  as  if  it  would  stave  it  in.  Some  efforts  were 
even  then  being  made  to  cut  this  portion  of 
the  wreck  away ;  for  as  the  ship,  which  was 
broadside  on,  turned  towards  us  in  her  rolling, 
I  plainly  descried  her  people  at  work  with 
axes,  especially  one  active  figure  with  long 
curling  hair,  conspicuous  among  the  rest. 
But  a  great  cry,  which  was  audible  even 
above  the  wind  and  water,  rose  from  the 
shore  at  this  moment ;  the  sea,  sweeping 
over  the  rolling  wreck,  made  a  clean  breach, 
and  carried  men,  spars,  casks,  planks,  bul- 
warks, heaps  of  such  toys,  into  the  boiling 
surge. 

The  second  mast  was  yet  standing,  with 
the  rags  of  a  rent  sail  and  a  wild  confusion  of 
broken  cordage  flapping  to  and  fro.  The 
ship  had  struck  once,  the  same  boatman 
hoarsely  said  in  my  ear,  and  then  lifted  in 
and  struck  again.  I  understood  him  to  add 
that  she  was  parting  amidships,  and  I  could 
readily  suppose  so,  for  the  rolling  and  beat- 
ing were  too  tremendous  for  any  human 


THE  STORM  AND  SHIPWRECK. 


work  to  suffer  long.  As  he  spoke  there  was 
another  great  cry  of  pity  from  the  beach  ; 
four  men  arose  with  the  wreck  out  of  the 
deep,  clinging  to  the  rigging  of  the  remaining 
mast ;  uppermost  the  active  figure  with  the 
curling  hair. 

There  was  a  bell  on  board,  and  as  the  ship 
rolled  and  dashed,  like  a  desperate  creature 
driven  mad,  now  showing  us  the  whole  sweep 
of  her  deck,  as  she  turned  on  her  beam-ends 
towards  the  shore,  now  nothing  but  her  keel, 
as  she  sprung  wildly  over  and  turned  to- 
wards the  sea,  the  bell  rang ;  and  its  sound, 
the  knell  of  those  unhappy  men,  was  borne 
towards  us  on  the  wind.  Again  we  lost  her 
and  again  she  rose.  Two  men  were  gone. 
The  agony  on  shore  increased.  Men  groaned 
and  clasped  their  hands ;  women  shrieked 
and  turned  away  their  faces.  Some  ran 
wildly  up  and  down  along  the  beach,  crying 
for  help  where  no  help  could  be.  I  found 
myself  one  of  these,  frantically  imploring  a 
knot  of  sailors  whom  I  knew  not  to  let  those 
two  lost  creatures  perish  before  our  eyes. 

They  were  making  out  to  me,  in  an  agitated 
way — I  don't  know  how,  for  the  little  I  could 
hear  I  was  scarcely  composed  enough  to  un- 
derstand— that  the  life-boat  had  been  bravely 
manned  an  hour  ago,  and  could  do  nothing  ; 
and  that  as  no  man  would  be  so  desperate  as 
to  attempt  to  wade  off  with  a  rope,  and  estab- 
lish a  communication  with  the  shore,  there 
was  nothing  left  to  try  ;  when  I  noticed  that 
some  new  sensation  moved  the  people  on  the 
beach,  and  saw  them  part,  and  Ham  come 
breaking  through  them  to  the  front. 

I  ran  to  him — as  well  as  I  know,  to  repeat 
my  appeal  for  help.  But,  distracted  though 
I  was,  by  a  sight  so  new  to  me  and  terrible, 
the  determination  in  his  face,  and  his  look, 
out  to  sea — exactly  the  same  look  as  I  remem- 
bered in  connexion  with  the  morning  after 
Emily's  flight — awoke  me  to  a  knowledge  of 
his  danger.  I  held  him  back  with  both  arms ; 
and  implored  the  men  with  whom  I  had  been 
speaking,  not  to  listen  to  him,  not  to  do  mur- 
der, not  to  let  him  stir  from  off  that  sand  ! 

Another  cry  arose  on  shore :  and  looking 
to  the  wreck,  we  saw  the  cruel  sail,  with  blow 
on  blow,  beat  off  the  lower  of  the  two  men, 
and  fly  up  in  triumph  round  the  active  figure 
left  alone  upon  the  mast. 

Against  such  a  sight,  and  against  such  de- 
termination as  that  of  the  calmly  desperate 
man  who  was  already  accustomed  to  lead  half 
the  people  present,  I  might  as  hopefully  have 
entreated  the  wind.  "  Mas'r  Davy,"  he 


all !   Mates,  make  me  ready  !  I'  m  a  going  off  1 


I  was  swept  away,  but  not  unkindly,  to 
some  distance,  where  the  people  around  me 
made  me  stay  :  urging,  as  I  confusedly  per- 
ceived, that  he  was  bent  on  going,  with  help 
or  without,  and  that  I  should  endanger  the 
precautions  for  his  safety  by  troubling  those 
with  whom  they  rested.  I  don't  know  what 
I  answered,  or  what  they  rejoined  ;  but,  I 
saw  hurry  on  the  beach,  and  men  running 
with  ropes  from  a  capstan  that  was  there,  and 
penetrating  into  a  circle  of  figures  that  hid 
him  from  me.  Then  I  saw  him  standing 
alone  in  a  seaman's  frock  and  trowsers :  a 
rope  in  his  hand,  or  slung  to  his  wrist : 
another  round  his  body :  and  several  of  the 
best  men  holding,  at  a  little  distance,  to  the 
latter,  which  he  laid  out  himself,  slack  upon 
the  shore,  at  his  feet. 

The  wreck,  even  to  my  unpractised  eye,  was 
breaking  up.  I  saw  that  she  was  parting  in 
the  middle,  and  that  the  life  of  the  solitary 
man  upon  the  mast  hung  by  a  thread.  Still 
he  clung  to  it.  He  had  a  singular  red  cap  on, 
— not  like  a  sailor's  cap,  but  of  a  finer  color  ; 
and  as  the  few  yielding  planks  between  him 
and  destruction  rolled  and  bulged,  and  his 
anticipative  death-knell  rung,  he  was  seen  by 
all  of  us  to  wave  it.  I  saw  him  do  it  now, 
and  thought  I  was  going  distracted,  when  his 
action  brought  an  old  remembrance  to  my 
mind  of  a  once  dear  friend. 

Ham  watched  the  sea,  standing  alone,  with 
the  silence  of  suspended  breath  behind  him, 
and  the  storm  before,  until  there  was  a  great 
retiring  wave,  when,  with  a  backward  glance 
at  those  who  held  the  rope  which  was  made 
fast  round  his  body,  he  dashed  in  after  it, 
and  in  a  moment  was  buffeting  with  the 
water ;  rising  with  the  hills,  falling  with  the 
valleys,  lost  beneath  the  foam ;  then  drawn 
again  to  land.  They  hauled  in  hastily. 

He  was  hurt.  I  saw  blood  on  his  face, 
from  where  I  stood  ;  but  he  took  no  thought 
of  that.  He  seemed  hurriedly  to  give  them 
some  directions  for  leaving  him  more  free — 
or  so  I  jydged  from  the  motion  of  his  arm — 
and  was  gone  as  before. 

And  now  he  made  for  the  wreck,  rising 
with  the  hills,  falling  with  the  valleys,  lost 
beneath  the  rugged  foam,  borne  in  towards 
the  shore,  borne  on  towards  the  ship,  striving 
hard  and  valiantly.  The  distance  was  noth< 
ing,  but  the  power  of  the  sea  and  wind  made 
the  strife  deadly.  At  length  he  neared  the 
wreck.  He  was  so  near,  that  with  one  more 
of  his  vigorous  strokes  he  would  be  clinging 
to  it — when  a  high,  green,  vast  hillside  of 
water,  moving  on  shoreward,  from  beyond 
the  ship,  he  seemed  to  leap  up  into  it  with  a 
mighty  bound,  and  the  ship  was  gone ! 

Some  eddying  fragments  I  saw  in  the  sea, 


GEBBIE   a  CO.   PHILADELPHIA  »  NEW  YORK 


A  WEEK  AT  DATA  VIA. 


49 


as  if  a  mere  cask  had  been  broken,  in  run- 
ning to  the  spot  where  they  were  hauling  in. 
Consternation  was  in  every  face.  They  drew 
him  to  my  very  feet — insensible — dead.  He 
was  carried  to  the  nearest  house ;  and,  no 
one  preventing  me  now,  I  remained  near  him, 
busy,  while  every  means  of  restoration  were 
tried  ;  but  he  had  been  beaten  to  death  by  the 
great  wave,  and  his  generous  heart  was  still- 
ed forever. 

As  I  sat  beside  the  bed,  when  hope  was 
abandoned  and  all  was  done,  a  fisherman,  who 
had  known  me  when  Emily  and  I  were  chil- 
dren, and  ever  since,  whispered  my  name  at 
the  door. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  with  tears  starting  to  his 
weather-beaten  face,  which,  with  his  tremb- 
ling lips,  was  ashy  pale,  "  will  you  come  over 
yonder?" 

The  old  remembrance  that  had  been  re- 
called to  me,  was  in  his  look.  I  asked  him, 
terror-stricken,  leaning  on  the  arm  he  held 
out  to  support  me  : 

"  Has  a  body  come  ashore  ?" 

He  said,    "  Yes." 

"  Do  I  know  it?"    I  asked  then. 

He  answered  nothing. 

But  he  led  me  to  the  shore.  And  on  that 
part  of  it  where  she  and  I  had  looked  for 
shells,  two  children — on  that  part  of  it  where 
some  lighter  fragments  of  the  old  boat,  blown 
down  last  night,  had  been  scattered  by  the 
wind —  among  the  ruins  of  the  home  he  had 
wronged — I  saw  him  lying  with  his  head 
upon  his  arm,  as  I  had  often  seen  him  lie  at 
school. 

CHABLES  DICKENS. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

I  wage  not  any  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  form  and  face ; 
No  lower  life  that  earth's  embrace 

May  breed  with  him,  can  fright  my  faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on, 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit  walks ; 

And  these  are  but  the  shatter'd  stalks, 
Or  ruin'd  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth : 
I  know  transplanted  human  worth 

Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 

The  wrath  that  garners  in  my  heart ; 
He  puts  our  lives  so  far  apart 
We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 

TENNYSOK. 
TOL.L 


A  WEEK  AT  BATAVIA. 

Batavia,  10th  November,  18G6. — The  last  in- 
habitants of  Australia  of  whom  we  took  leave 
were  cannibals,  with  black  skins  and  carry- 
ing poisoned  arrows:  the  lir«t  to  receive  us 
on  the  soil  of  Java  are  Dutch  custom-house 
officers,  pale  and  fair,  dressed  in  brilliant 
uniforms,  and  beariug  huge  bunches  of  keys. 
They  softened  for  us  the  transition  from 
savage  to  civilized  life  by  the  ruthless  open- 
ing of  our  boxes  and  entire  upsetting  of  their 
contents.  Under  the  great  shed  of  the  Cus- 
tom House,  some  four  hundred  chocolate- 
coloured  porters,  with  bare  chests,  scarlet 
sashes,  and  green  turbans,  fight  for  our  lug- 
gage, and  carry  it  off  at  a  run.  My  anxious 
glance  follows  a  certain  hat-box,  with  a  clus- 
ter of  sixteen  coolies  clinging  wildly  to  it, 
yelling  with  all  their  might,  and  finally  be- 
coming lost  in  the  crowd. 

We  get,  two  and  two,  into  some  charming 
little  open  carriages,  which  seem  to  abound 
here,  it  being  essential  to  the  dignity  of  a 
European  never  to  go  on  foot.  Each  is  drawn 
by  Lilliputian  ponies,  like  Newfoundland  dogs, 
brought  from  the  island  of  Timor,  with  close- 
cropped  manes,  and  knowing  little  heads,  and 
who  go  at  a  tremendous  pace.  The  eccentric- 
looking  coachmen  who  goad  them  on  with 
voice  and  whip  are  Malays,  wearing  red  and 
yellow  striped  hats  like  enormous  bell-glasses, 
which  shade  them  entirely.  In  this  manner 
we  pass  at  a  gallop  through  the  old  town  of 
Batavia,  built  on  the  unhealthy  mud  of  the 
sea-shore.  Here  there  are  only  the  dwellings 
of  the  natives,  and  a  good  many  counting- 
houses,  whose  old-fashioned  gable  ends  recall 
the  Dutch  buildings  of  the  last  century,  and 
contrast  curiously  with  the  luxuriant  verdure 
of  tropical  vegetation.  In  these  lanes  plenty 
of  Chinamen  are  to  be  seen  with  their  con- 
ceited strut,  rich  dandies  of  the  Celestial 
Empire,  with  heads  well  shaved,  and  tails  so 
tightly  plaited  that  they  always  make  one 
long  to  pull  them.  A  Malay  shades  them 
from  the  sun  with  an  immense  sky-blue  um- 
brella. For  more  than  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  our  drive  continues,  and  we  pass  by  the 
most  novel  sights.  We  skirt  canals,  where 
groups  of  thirty  or  forty  Malay  women  are 
bathing,  and  are  suddenly  startled  in  their 
gambols  by  a  pirogue,  heavily  laden  with 
fruit,  moving  silently  along  by  the  aid  of  its 
languid  paddles.  Here  comes  a  troop  of 
native  cavalry,  trotting  "  a  I'anglaise;"  their 
s.words,  as  tall  as  their  horses,  trail  upon  the 
ground  ;  their  long  spears  touch  the  plumes 
of  the  cocoa-nut  trees  :  these  Malays,  with 
their  gingerbread  complexions  and  hanging 
lips,  are  dressed  up  as  European  soldiers,  and 


50 


A  WEEK  AT  BATAVIA. 


their  bare  feet  decorated  with  magnificent 
spurs.  There,  numbers  of  itinerant  mer- 
chants, adorned  with  "langoutis"  of  the 
most  vivid  colours,  traverse  the  streets  at  the 
peculiar  trotting  pace  common  to  Indians ; 
gesticulating,  apostrophising  the  passer-by, 
and  laughing  loudly.  It  is  the  most  bewil- 
dering, the  most  picturesque,  the  liveliest 
crowd  I  ever  saw.  It  would  take  me  hours 
to  describe  its  thousand  colours,  the  incon- 
ceivable specimens  of  humanity  that  compose 
it,  its  noisy  pantomimic  animation.  But 
soon  we  cross  a  bridge,  and  enter  the  new 
town.  Oh,  what  a  garden  of  fairyland,  what 
a  verdant  paradise  this  is  !  Literally  speak- 
ing, there  are  no  streets  in  Batavia  ;  there 
are  only  splendid  avenues,  shaded  by  the 
most  beautiful  and  luxuriant  trees,  which 
form  immense  long  bowers,  such  as  in  Europe 
are  only  seen  in  a  scene  at  the  opera.  The 
fiery  rays  of  a  pitiless  sun  can  only  at  inter- 
vals penetrate  this  shade,  but  they  deck  all 
that  forms  it  with  marvellous  hues :  the 
many  plumes  of  the  cocoa-nut  tree ;  the 
slender  branches  of  the  tulip  tree,  which  are 
all  flower,  and  scarlet  flower ;  bananas  with 
their  green  leaves  as  large  as  a  man  ;  cotton 
trees,  covered  with  snow  white  tufts ;  the 
travellers'  palm,  great  fans  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite grace,  from  which  a  stream  of  a  milky 
fluid  springs,  if  you  pierce  the  trunk ;  finally, 
immense  banyan  trees,  from  which  hundreds 
of  creepers  fall  straight  down,  and  taking 
root  almost  as  soon  as  they  touch  the  ground, 
climb  again  to  the  summit  of  the  tree,  twin- 
ing round  it  in  knotted  garlands,  only  to  fall 
again  !  One  of  these  trees  alone  forms  a  for- 
est surrounded  by  a  curtain,  a  network  of 
interlaced  foliage  and  flowers,  through  which 
children  in  a  state  of  nature,  putting  on  one 
side  the  hundreds  of  creepers  waving  in  the 
wind,  can  look  at  the  boats  and  the  swimmers 
passing  along  the  canal. 

The  greater  part  of  these  bowers  of  the 
tropical  Babylon  are,  in  fact,  only  the  foot- 
paths to  the  "arroyos,"  the  greater  water- 
ways, which  the  Dutch  would  certainly  have 
formed  by  hundreds,  in  recollection  of  their 
mother-country,  if  the  Malays  had  not  already 
made  them  in  thousands.  Thus  the  instincts 
of  the  white  race  from  the  north  and  the 
yellow  race  of  the  equator  coincided.  The 
greatest  navigators  and  the  greatest  pirates  in 
the  world  cut  up  their  soil  into  innumerable 
islets,  and  the  canals  in  this  town  are  the 
veins  by  which  circulates  their  whole  com- 
mercial life.  Another  many-coloured  bower 
therefore,  to  our  left,  shades  the  arroyo  on 
whose  opposite  shore  we  are  driving.  I  can- 
not take  my  eyes  from  the  innumerable  vessels 
that  traverse  it ;  the  laughing  groups  pad- 


dling in  the  water,  the  tufts  of  water-lilies 
blooming  there.  To  ths  right — through  clumps 
of  coffee  trees,  nutmeg  trees,  vanilla  trees, 
and  tamarinds — we  catch  glimpses  of  lawns, 
in  fairy-like  gardens  ;  and  in  the  distance  the 
white  palaces  and  green  verandahs  of  the 
European  nabobs.  1  had  seen  nothing  but 
these  avenues  and  villas,  and  fancied  myself 
in  some  delightful  suburb  of  the  city,  when 
we  found  ourselves  at  the  hotel,  "der  Neder- 
landen,"  which,  it  appears,  is  in  the  centre 
of  Batavia ;  so  that  this  blossoming  wood  is 
the  town  itself!  I  am  in  such  ecstacies  with 
it,  I  can  hardly  believe  my  eyes.  By  the 
beard  of  all  the  monkeys  with  long  tails  or 
short  that  I  have  yet  seen,  I  swear  that  it  is 
impossible  to  describe  to  you  my  amazement 
and  admiration.  Our  new  dwelling  is  situ- 
ated in  the  midst  of  a  garden,  and  sheltered 
by  large  trees.  The  principal  building,  which 
is  of  marble,  is  supported  by  an  airy  colon- 
nade, into  which  it  opens  on  all  sides ;  on  the 
side  of  the  street  and  the  canal  is  a  circular 
verandah,  where  officers,  grown  thin  from  the 
heat,  are  lounging  in  cane  rocking-chairs. 
On  the  opposite  side  a  great  oval-shaped 
kiosk,  open  to  all  the  winds,  but  protected  by 
a  light  roof  from  the  sun,  serves  as  a  dining- 
room.  Some  sixty  Malay  servants  are  swarm- 
ing like  ants  to  lay  the  table  there.  Nothing 
can  be  prettier  than  their  long  robes,  made  of 
red  cotton  or  silk,  their  blue  turbans,  and 
yellow  sashes,  set  off  by  the  whiteness  of  the 
balconies  and  the  pavement.  Two  long 
wings,  of  one  story  only,  with  verandahs  and 
colonnades,  enclose  the  gardens  commanded 
by  the  kiosk.  Here  are  our  rooms,  and  on 
entering  them  we  feel  a  real  sensation  of 
freshness,  a  delicious  temperature  compared  to 
that  outside ;  there,  in  fact,  the  thermometer 
is  at  114°,  and  here  it  is  kind  enough  to  go 
down  to  102°.  It  is  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon ;  good  heavens !  what  will  it  be  to- 
morrow at  noon  ? 

We  had  hardly  begun  to  unpack  our  boxes 
when  a  man  presented  himself.  He  was  a 
native,  half  bailiff,  half  policeman,  with  bare 
feet  and  a  sword  at  his  side,  and  made  us 
write  down,  according  to  police  regulations, 
our  names  and  qualities  in  a  register,  which 
he  appeared  to  hold  in  great  veneration,  de- 
manding a  legal  and  minute  account  for  every 
column.  I  complied  very  willingly  with  the 
regulations  of  the  colonial  "Pietri,"  but 
when  my  august  travelling  companion  was 
called  upon  to  write  down  his  domicile,  he 
was  tempted  to  put  "Batavia  itself;"  is  not 
every  land  which  is  not  the  beloved  country 
an  equally  transitory  domicile  to  the  exile  ? 

If  the  flowering  trees  of  this  terrestrial 
paradise  are  the  most  characteristic  beauties 


A  WEEK  AT  BATAVIA. 


51 


of  the  town,  the  marble  basins  for  bathing 
are  certainty  the  greatest  charm  of  a  Javanese 
hotel.  In  less  than  ten  minutes  after  alight- 
ing at  the  "  Nederlanderi,"  I  ha'.l  gone  to  the 
end  of  the  colonnade,  descended  a  few  steps, 
ani  was  enjoying  in  the  whitest  of  basins  the 
voluptuous  delights  of  an  abundant  shower 
manufactured  by  a  Malay  who  pumped  the 
water  by  a  regular  movement  up  to  the  ceil- 
ing, whence  it  fell  again  to  inundate  me.  I 
should  have  remained  in  my  bath  to  all  eter- 
nity if  the  patience  of  these  placid  Malays 
had  not  exhausted  mine.  Two  attendants,  in 
fact,  had  insisted  upon  following  me,  and 
crouching  down  some  four  yards  off  were 
waiting  till  I  was  pleased  to  condescend  to 
require  their  soft  towels  ;  and  beside  the  man 
who  pumped,  a  fourth  man  in  a  red  robe 
offered  me  a  basket  full  of  mangoes,  red  man- 
gosteens,  whose  inside  is  like  pink  snow,  and 
the  perfumed  little-known  bananas. 

In  the  evening  we  dined  in  the  kiosk ; 
round  us  a  many-coloured  noisy  crowd 
danced  under  the  big  trees,  from  which 
hung  Venetian  lanterns.  From  time  to  time, 
amongst  the  rel  vests  and  green  robej,  a 
wealthy  Dutchman  passes  languidly  along  in 
loose  white  garments,  preceded  by  the  light 
of  an  immensely  long  cigar.  We  are  waited 
upon  by  the  whole  troop  of  Orientals  of  whom 
I  spoke  just  now.  I  have  a  Malay  to  supply 
me  with  iced  water,  which  he  pours  out  at 
arm's  length ;  there  are  two  to  change  my 
plate ;  three  to  bring  round  the  dishes ;  one 
carves ;  another  is  awaiting  the  moment  for 
coffee.  I  believe  if  I  wished  for  a  dozen 
dishes,  and  particularly  if  I  could  call  for 
them  in  the  native  dialect,  I  should  give  em- 
ployment to  the  twelve  men  in  red  who  stand 
bchin  I  my  chair !  What  a  charming  effect 
all  this  variety  of  colours  has  on  this  beauti- 
ful evening,  with  a  bright  light  shining  upon 
them!  And  when,  lazily  stretchel  under  the 
verandah,  enjoying  the  balmy  evening  breeze, 
I  call  "Sapada,  cassi  api !"  immediately  one 
of  these  Arabian  Nights  figures,  whom  one  is 
tempted  to  call  slaves,  advances  from  the 
column,  at  the  foot  of  which  he  has  been  si- 
lently crouching  like  a  statue  of  Buddha,  and 
brings  me  to  light  my  cigar  a  long  match  of 
which  he  has  the  constant  care.  It  is  made  of 
stndal  wood  saw-dust  glued  together,  and 
burns  night  and  day  with  the  most  deli- 
cious perfume.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  turning 
into  a  pasha ! 

As  regards  the  dinner  itself,  as  a  North- 
man I  must  make  some  reservation :  eight 
and  forty  different  kinds  of  capsicums,  a 
mountain  of  rice  covering  a  microscopic  atom 
of  chicken  (the  anti-type  of  the  fragment  of 
the  Australian  Dinornis),  which  with  a  Cay- 


enne pepper  sauce,  constitiites  the  celebrated 
curry ;  an  absence  of  all  meat  that  can  be 
cut  with  an  ordinary  knife;  an  abundance  of 
bamboo  salads  and  chutnee  ;  there  is  a  local 
flavour  about  this  much  appreciated  by  ama- 
teurs, but  which  in  palates  and  digestions  un- 
accustomed to  Javanese  cooking  raises  fiery 
torments,  which  are  only  increased  by  drink- 
ing. 

llth  November,  1866. — As  I  lay  down  last 
night  on  a  bed  already  possessing  the  peculi- 
arity of  being  made  with  mats  instead  of 
sheets,  I  was  greatly  surprised  to  find,  be- 
sides the  innumerable  gnats  imprisoned  be- 
hind the  mosquito  net,  a  companion  quite  as 
remarkable.  This  was  a  long  roll  made  of 
grass  matting,  about  two  yards  long,  and  the 
thickness  of  an  ordinary  bolster,  which 
awaited  me  laid  lengthwise  on  the  bed.  It 
was  obligingly  explained  to  me  that  no  in- 
habitant of  Java  will  sleep  without  this  vege- 
table production,  which  must  be  kept  between 
the  legs  to  cool  the  body.  I  was  very  much 
amused  with  this  specimen  of  manners  and 
customs  ;  but  if  it  soothes  the  Creoles  with  a 
refreshing  slumber,  it  rouses  Europeans  in- 
controllably  to  a  bolstering  match.  Besides 
the  swarms  of  buzzing  mosquitoes,  with  theii 
impertinent  stings,  exasperated  us  by  whist- 
ling their  Javanese  airs  in  our  ears ;  but  as 
the  capsicums,  the  grass  bolsters,  and  the 
mosquitoes  are  necessary  features  of  the 
locality,  I  intend  in  a  few  days  to  make 
friends  with  them  all. 

Very  different  from  Paris  customs,  fashion- 
able life  begins  here  at  half-past  four  in  the 
morning.  As  soon  as  the  first  mists  of  a 
tropical  dawn  appear,  old  and  young  begin  to 
be  heard  moving  over  the  tiled  floors  in  slip- 
pers, and,  wrapped  in  floating  cotton  gar- 
ments, hasten  to  the  pools  to  enjoy  the  ice- 
cold  waves.  As  I  left  them,  I  met  a  real 
odalisque,  with  jet  black  eyes,  and  of  the 
most  foreign  appearance ;  she  glided  between 
the  columns,  throwing  back  masses  of  black 
hair  which  fell  to  the  ground,  and  classically 
draped  like  Stratonice  in  rose-coloured  cash- 
mere. She  seemed  to  us  really  an  appari- 
tion, with  her  sudden  changing  glances,  the 
wild  swiftness  of  her  movements,  her  air  as 
of  a  lioness  surprised,  and  that  Indian  fire 
in  her  veins  which  always  gives  so  fascinating 
a  charm.  We  were  told  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  a  Dutch  officer  and  of  a  native 
of  Borneo. 

The  half-caste  beauties  bloom  wonderfully 
under  the  sun  of  Java,  while  the  unhappy 
Europeans,  enfeebled  and  worn  out  by  the 
heat,  look  pale  and  ghastly,  and  inspire  one 
with  the  most  profound  pity.  Such  was  my 


62 


A  WEEK  AT  BATAVIA. 


first  impression,  while  taking  my  walk  be- 
tween four  and  six  in  the  morning,  the 
especially  fashionable  hour.  But  what  par- 
ticularly struck  me  was  a  military  post: 
twenty  Malays  were  on  guard,  armed  with 
pikes  and  pitchforks  more  than  nine  feet 
long.  It  was  explained  to  us  that  iu  this 
country  there  are  a  good  many  natives  suffer- 
ing from  mental  disease:  over-excited  by 
opium,  they  wander  over  the  island  armed 
with  a  sword,  and  run  through  the  body  the 
lirst  man  they  fall  in  with,  in  honour  of  the 
Koran.  This  is  called  running  a  muck. 
As  soon  as  one  of  these  men  appears,  the 
guard  gives  chase,  encloses  him  between  three 
pitchforks,  and  the  corporal,  whose  rank  may 
easily  be  recognized  from  the  fact  of  his 
wearing  shoes,  has  the  honour  of  running 
through  with  a  javelin  the  terrible  madman. 
First  insight  into  the  internal  government. 

A  morning  at  Batavia  consists  of  a  walk, 
five  or  six  baths  running,  and  an  appetizing 
breakfast.  In  the  afternoon  every  one 
sleeps. 

Towards  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  a  little 
stir  begins  to  be  felt :  hundreds  of  open 
carriages  drive  about.  The  European  popu- 
lation, lounging  bare-headed,  wends  its  way 
to  the  Waterloo  plain,  where  a  military  band 
is  playing.  We  follow  the  stream,  still  de- 
lighted by  the  enchanting  avenues  and  bril- 
liant dresses.  This  "  Longchamps  "  partakes 
completely  of  the  character  of  the  colony ; 
the  garrison,  nine  thousand  men  strong,  is 
its  principal  ornament ;  more  than  three 
hundred  carriages  stand  in  the  shade  of  the 
great  trees ;  the  national  airs,  very  well 
played,  echo  loudly ;  and  officers  gallop  about 
amongst  the  myriads  of  Javanese  in  holiday 
dress,  glittering  in  the  most  brilliant  Eastern 
finery.  Imagine  a  tall,  fine-looking  man,  in  a 
blue  tunic,  loose  white  trousers,  high  boots, 
large  spurs,  and  big  sword.  Suppose  that  he 
will  kindly  open  his  legs  to  admit  between 
them  a  superbly  caparisoned  pony,  about  the 
size  of  a  Newfoundland  dog,  and  you  have  a 
truthful  picture  of  the  Javanese  representa- 
tives of  the  armed  force  of  all  the  Nether- 
lands. The  small  size  of  the  horse  detracts 
in  no  wise  from  the  greatest  military  virtues, 
and  Heaven  knows  that  the  fame  of  this  army 
is  beyond  all  praise ;  but  when  a  troop  of 
Lilliputian  horses,  mounted  by  worthy  com- 
panions of  Gulliver,  charge  the  enemy,  it  is 
impossible  to  help  laughing  with  all  one's 
heart. 

We  dined  this  evening  with  our  friend  M. 
Van  Delden,  the  president  of  the  Chamber  of 
Commerce.  Our  agreeable  companion  in  the 
stifling  cabin  of  the  '  Hero '  had  resumed  his 
princely  existence  in  his  palace,  amidst  the 


peaceful  charms  of  his  delightful  family  cir- 
cle. Luxurious  pools,  gardens  of  Armida,  a 
verandah  dining-room  amidst  the  luxuriant 
foliage  of  blooming  thickets,  swarms  of  Indian 
servants  in  their  most  splendid  national  dress, 
nothing  is  wanting  of  all  that  can  be  im- 
agined as  the  regal  reward  of  industry, 
probity,  and  talent.  How  is  it  possible  after 
the  well-earned  delights  of  such  a  paradise 
to  return  to  a  muddy,  foggy  street  in  Holland, 
and  live  there  without  twenty  horses  or  four 
score  servants?  Holland  is  but  a  name  to  be 
passionately  loved  by  these  patriotic  hearts  ; 
from  time  to  time  they  return  to  see  it,  and  to 
re-invigorate  themselves  on  their  native  soil ; 
but  space,  wealth,  sunshine,  authority,  are 
wanting  there  to  the  happy  inhabitants  of 
Java,  whom  monopoly  has  here  made  pashas 
and  kings,  and  who  feel  little  inclined  to  be- 
come subjects,  rate-payers,  and  tenants  on 
lease  again,  at  home  ! 

12th  November,  1866.— We  follow  the  fash- 
ion and  take  an  airing  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning  on  M.  Van  Delden' s  skittish  ponies. 
Still  the  same  bowers,  the  same  marvels  of 

!  verdure  and  bloom,  of  perfume  and  foliage  ; 

i  still  the  same  numbers  of  villas  scattered 
about  in  gardens,  the  same  movement  on  a 

;  hundred  different  canals,  the  same  brilliant 
colours  in  this  human  ant-hill  which  moves 
busily  about,  screaming  noisily  like  a  flight  of 

j  cockatoos.  At  nine  o'clock  we  have  already 
reached  our  fifth  bath.  This  ton-id  tempera- 

j  ture  of  104°  in  the  shade  would  really,  I  be- 
lieve, burst  any  thermometer  that  was  put 
into  the  sun.  I  braved  it  nevertheless  with 

I  a  pyramidal  white  cotton  helmet  on  my  head, 

I  which  made  me  look  like  a  white-washed 
fireman.  I  was  much  puzzled  with  the  narrow 

i  winding  lanes  of  the  old  town,  where  the 

j  inhabitants  pack  themselves  into  their  barn- 
boo  huts  as  we  should  pile  up  sacks  of  wheat 

•  in  a  corn  market.  Ihe  Malay  shops  are  filled 
with  calico  goods  and  sticky  eatables  ;  the 
Chinese  shops  are  of  a  superior  kind.  Here, 
for  example,  is  the  stall  of  a  Chinese  •watch- 
maker. The  proprietor's  plaited  tail  is  the 
sole  garment  which  appears  on  his  immensely 
fat  body.  He  holds  a  magnifying  glass  in  his 
left  eye  by  a  contraction  of  the  eyebrow 
which  contorts  his  features  into  a  horrible 
grimace,  and  this  semi-nude  jeweller  is  auda- 
ciously handling  a  Breguet  watch,  and  seems 
very  proud  of  being  able  to  take  the  Paris 
workmanship  so  cleverly  to  pieces.  His 
neighbour  sells  monkeys,  his  opposite  neigh- 
bour innumerable  preparations  of  capsicum 
in  innumerable  saucers  piled  one  upon 
another.  Everywhere  a  putrid  and  disgust- 
ing smell  reigns.  The  sea  breeze  brings 


A  WEEK  AT  BATAVIA. 


53 


great  whiffs  of  it,  exhaled  from  the  man- 
grove trees  and  poisonous  shrubs  which  cover 
the  shore.  The  advancing  tide  swells  their 
knotted,  twisted,  porous  roots ;  in  a  few 
hours  they  increase  some  inches  in  diameter ; 
then  the  ebb  leaves  them  exposed  on  the  un- 
healthy mud  ;  the  sun  pours  down,  evapo- 
rates and  dries  them  up ;  a  line  of  yellowish 
clouds,  of  pestilential  mists,  forms  itself,  and 
remains  for  a  moment  suspended,  waiting  to 
be  carried  off  by  the  wind,  and  then,  woe  to 
the  coast  where  the  caprice  of  the  atmosphere 
imy  direct  it ! 

It  is  these  deadly  miasmas  which  have 
given  to  the  old  town  of  Batavia  that  general 
reputation  for  unhealthiness  which  made  you 
fear  for  us  when  we  left  home.  And  in  fact, 
it  is  impossible  to  count  the  numbers  who 
h  ive  fallen  victims  there  since  the  occupation 
of  the  place.  I  was  speaking  of  this  subject 
with  an  agreeable  acquaintance.  "  Oh  !" 
said  he,  "before  the  period  when  we  re- 
treated from  the  shores  to  found  the  new 
town,  people  died  like  flies  in  old  Batavia,  it 
was  actual  poisoning  for  every  human  being ; 
but  now,  what  does  it  signify?  no  one  lives 
there  but  Chinese  or  Malays !"  This  saying, 
anything  but  philanthropic,  recalled  to  my 
mind  a  certain  correspondence  in  the  last 
Mexican  war.  Having  enumerated  the  disas- 
ters from  yellow  fever  on  the  coast,  and  given 
ai  account  of  the  movement  of  the  troops  int} 
the  interior,  the  letter  said :  "  But  families 
m  ly  feel  re-assured  now,  there  are  none  but 
sailors  on  the  coast!"  The  families  of  the 
French  sailors  must  have  been  .about  as  much 
co-nforted  as  those  of  the  natives  are  here. 
Notwithstanding  the  pure  air  of  the  new 
tiwn,  we  have  just  had  a  terrible  example  of 
fie  consequence  of  imprudence.  One  of  our 
neighbours  at  table,  who  had  eaten  too  freely 
of  the  juicy  pine-apples  at  dessert  yesterday 
evening,  looked  a  little  pale  at  the  mid-day 
breakfast — at  three  o'clock,  he  was  dead  !  It 
is  the  only  thing  which  is  done  quickly  in 
these  tropical  latitudes ! 

Hardly  is  the  hour  of  our  siesta  over  before 
we  sit  down  to  write  under  our  verandah. 
Immediately  we  are  besieged  by  some  fifty 
Chinese  or  Malays,  wanting  to  sell  us  neck- 
ties or  handkerchiefs,  French  photographs 
and  military  sketches.  I  drive  them  away, 
they  return;  I  threaten  them,  they  spread 
out  a  hundred  new  thing*?,  this  one  crying  up 
hU  trousers,  another  his  eau  de  Cologne,  a 
third  his  monkeys.  Determined  to  await  the 
en  I  of  my  letter,  they  are  at  this  moment 
crouching  down  in  the  full  sun  ten  paces  from 
us,  evidently  hoping  that  I  shall  be  in  a  more 
conciliatory  disposition  presently.  In  the 
evening  we  were  roused  by  a  fire.  A  hun- 


dred and  eighty  houses — reed  huts — in  the 
old  town  were  blazing  like  a  lot  of  lucit'er 
matches.  AVhat  quantities  of  vermin  rnuat 
have  been  roasted ! 

13th  November,  1866. — We  might  have  ex- 
pected this !  The  captain  of  the  •  Hero,' 
our  neighbour  in  this  corridor,  turned  pale 
yesterday  evening,  and  passed  the  night  pros- 
trate on  the  ground  very  sick,  and  groaning. 
We  ourselves  have  paid  the  necessary  tribute 
of  new  arrivals,  and  our  interiors  are  in  a 
pitiable,  state.  If  we  can  preserve  our  cheer- 
fulness, we  are  safe  from  that  phantom  of 
cholera — and  Javanese  cholera — which  takea 
fright  if  it  does  not  inspire  it. 

Here,  too,  is  something  to  restore  us — the 
pure  air  of  the  mountains  inland.  A  charm- 
ing letter  from  the  Governor-General  for  the 
time  being  informs  us  that,  "political  con- 
siderations not  permitting  him  to  offer  to  a 
prince  in  exile  the  honours  due  to  a  French 
prince,  he  yet  begs  to  be  allowed  to  treat  him 
as  the  grandson  of  a  king."  He  sends  us  a 
circular  passport,  a  most  rare  and  valuable 
favour,  for  the'  whole  island,  and  even  for  the 
so-called  imperial  territories,  where,  -under 
Dutch  protection,  the  Sultans  of  Sourakarta 
and  Djokjokarta  reign  ;  notice  is  given  to  all 
the  residents  and  native  princes  in  the  island, 
and  the  government  post  horses  are  put  at 
the  Prince's  service  gratuitously.  This  is  a 
piece  of  good  fortune  which  delights  us  and 
fills  us  with  the  most  lively  gratitude. 

Change  being  recommended  for  those  who 
feel  the  enervating  effect  of  this  fiery  climate, 
we  have  not  refused  the  Resident  of  Batavia, 
M.  Hoogeveen's,  kind  invitation.  At  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening  his  state  carriage  came 
to  fetch  us.  Four  outrunners,  all  dressed  in 
white,  carry  long  white  horses'  tails  with 
which  they  flick  away  the  flies  from  our  team ; 
they  make  good  use  of  their  legs,  each  run- 
ning by  the  side  of  his  pony  and  effectually 
chasing  the  flies.  We  gallop  and  they  run, 
such  is  the  custom  here.  In  half  an  hour  we 
arrive  at  the  palace.  A  regiment  of  servants 
are  on  the  steps,  turbans,  sashes,  arms,  all 
the  splendid  figures  of  Oriental  scenery  stand 
out  brilliantly  on  the  marble.  The  Resident 
receives  the  Prince  most  cordially ;  then 
come  the  general  in  command,  the  colonels  of 
artillery,  the  civil  engineers,  and,  finally,  the 
sultan  and  sultana  of  one  of  the  principali- 
ties of  Borneo.  The  husband  is  a  stunted 
little  old  man,  wrinkled  and  rheumat?c,  furi- 
ously chewing  a  paste  made  of  lime  and  betel 
nut,  which  blackens  the  teeth  and  makes  the 
gums  bleed,  and  which,  stuck  between  the 
teeth  and  the  lower  lip,  swells  the  Intter,  by 
nature  hanging,  and  so  increases  a  hideous 
and  deformed  swelling. 


THE  WEDDING  OF  SHON  MACLEAN. 


But  the  sultana  is  charming.  She  is  a  little 
person,  young,  and  with  bright  eyes,  and  re- 
turns the  greeting  of  the  young  Europeans 
-with  perfect  grace.  Her  dress  consists  of  a 
mantle  of  blue  and  yellow  silk.  A  red  and 
white  scarf,  passed  across  her  shoulder,  covers 
her  bosom,  and  is  kept  in  its  place  by  a 
brooch  of  twelve  intertwined  crescents  made 
of  diamonds  of  the  island.  It  is  the  prettiest 
jewel  I  ever  saw.  A  red  turban  with  a  dia- 
mond ornament  at  the  side,  frames  the  smil- 
ing expressive  bronze  head. 

As  for  us,  whilst  sauntering  amongst  the 
white  arcades,  amongst  strange  groups  of 
soldiers,  servants,  incense  burners,  and  cigar 
lighters,  we  had  the  pleasure  of  arranging  a 
crocodile  hunt  with  the  good-natured  resi- 
dent. 

13ih  November,  18GG. — Beyond  the  repeated 
siestas  which  are  the  great  secret  of  happi- 
ness when  one  is  so  near  the  line  ;  beyond 
the  lounging  and  bathing,  and  the  delicious 
cups  of  coffee,  everything  is  a  labour  under 
this  sun !  All  the  same,  I  have  closed  my 
mail-bag  for  Europe  and  paid  the  postage  on 
it ;  no  mere  form  of  politeness,  I  assure  you. 
Sevcn-and-twenty  shillings  for  postage  have 
I  paid  this  morning. 

I  had  almost  forgotten  our  visit  to  the 
museum,  of  which  the  Resident  did  the 
honours  to  the  Prince.  Besides  the  fly-flag- 
ging outrunners,  M.  Hoogevcen  is  accom- 
panied by  the  gilt-umbrella-bearing  outrun- 
ner, and  two  cigar  lighters,  who  trot  behind 
us  brandishing  the  sandal-wood  match,  that 
Vestal  fire  always  kept  up  for  the  official 
"  manillas."  The  museum  is  magnificent, 
and  so  curious  as  to  be  quite  unintelligible  tj 
the  traveller  who  is  not  well  versed  in  San- 
scrit, Javanese,  Sunda,  Bali,  and  Hindoo 
divinities,  their  big  stomachs,  slits  of  eyes, 
and  humped  backs,  with  double  faces  and 
half  a  dozen  arms  and  legs  kicking  about, 
Rilver  chickens  with  five  legs,  ancient  lamps 
and  tom-toms,  with  which  we  produced  the 
most  astonishing  noises,  and  I  know  not  what 
besides.  It  is  a  perfect  nightmare. 

The  '  Hero'  starts  to-day  for  our  dear  Aus- 
tralia ;  and  we  intend,  when  we  confide  our 
letters  to  her,  to  wish  her  a  fair  wind,  and 
take  the  customary  farewell  breakfast  on 
board.  Poor  ship,  in  which  we  had  run  so 
many  risks  !  I  see  it  still  clearing  by  a  few 
yards  only  the  coral  reef  on  which  we  threat- 
ened a  thousand  times  to  go  to  pieces  !  I  see 
it  lo^t  for  fifteen  hours  after  passing  Bali, 
when  a  dangerous  current  carried  us  to  the 
north-ea«t,  while  we  were  steering  west-north- 
west. And  she  is  getting;  h^r  steim  ut>  to 
start  again,  and  put  to  flight  the  flotillas  of  pi- 


romies  manned  by  cannibals  !  Whatever  hap- 
pens, her  last  deed  here  is  a  good  one,  for  she 
is  carrying  off  a  poor  invalid  dying  under  the 
tropical  sun;  a  mere  skeleton  i'roiu  consump- 
tion, the  poor  man  is  going  to  seek  for  health 
amongst  the  beauties  of  New  South  Wales,  or 
the  cool  breezes  of  Tasmania.  If  he  lamils 
alive,  the  marks  of  sympathy  and  cordial  ty 
which  all  strangers  there  receive  will  surely 
save  him. — From  the  Marquis  de  Beauvoir' * 
Voyage  Around  the  World. 


THE  WEDDING  OF  SHON  MACLEAN. 
A  bagpipe  melody  from  the  Gaelic. 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean 

Twenty  Pipers  together 
Came  in  the  wind  and  the  rain 

Playing  over  the  heather ; 
Backward  their  ribbons  flew, 

Bravely  they  strutted  and  blew, 
Each  clad  in  tartan  new, 

Bonnet,  and  blackcock  feather, 
And  every  piper  was  fu', 

Twenty  pipers  together. 

He's  but  a  Sassenach  blind  and  vain 

Who  never  heard  of  Shon  Maclean — 

The  Duke's  own  piper,  called  "  Shon  the  Fair," 

From  his  freckled  skin  and  his  fiery  hair. 

Father  and  son,  since  the  world's  creation, 

The  Macleans  had  followed  this  occupation, 

And  played  the  pibroch  to  fire  the  clan 

Since  the  first  Duke  came  and  the  Earth  began. 

Like  the  whistling  of  birds,  like  the  humming  «f  I)je», 

Like  the  sough  of  the  south-wind  in  the  trees, 

Like  the  singing  of  angels,  the  playing  of  shawms, 

Like  Ocean  itself  with  its  storms  and  its  calms, 

Were  the  pipes  of  Shon,  when  he  strutted  and  blew, — 

A  cock  whose  crowing  creation  he  knew  I 

At  last  in  the  prime  of  his  playing  life, 

The  spirit  moved  him  to  take  a  wife — 

A  lassie  with  eyes  of  Highland  blue, 

Who  loved  the  pipes  and  the  piper  too, 

And  danced  to  the  sound  with  a  foot  and  a  leg 

White  as  a  lily  and  smooth  as  an  egg. 

So,  all  the  Pipers  were  coming  together 

Over  the  moor  and  across  the  heather, 

All  in  the  wind  and  the  rain ; 
All  tho  Pipers  so  bravely  drest 
Were  flocking  in  from  the  east  and  the  west, 
To  bless  the  bedding  and  blow  their  best 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean. 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean, 
'Twas  wet  and  windy  weather  ! 

Yet,  thro'  the  wind  and  tho  rain 
Came  twenty  Pipers  together ! 


THE  WEDDING  OF  SHON  MACLEAN. 


56 


Earach  and  Dougal  Dim, 

Sandy  of  Isla  too, 

Each  with  the  bonnet  o'  blue, 

Tartan,  and  blackcock  feather: 
And  every  Piper  was  fu1 
Twenty  pipers  together. 

The  knot  was  tied,  the  words  were  said, 

Shon  was  married,  the  feast  was  spread, 

At  the  head  of  the  table  sat,  high  and  hoar, 

Strong  Sandy  of  Isla,  age  fourscore, 

Whisker'd,  grey  as  a  Huskeir  seal, 

And  clad  in  crimson  from  head  to  heel. 

Beneath  and  round  him  in  their  degree, 

Gathering  the  men  of  minstrelsie, 

With  keepers,  gillies,  lads  and  lassies, 

Mixing  voices,  and  jingling  glasses. 

At  soup  and  haggis,  at  roast  and  boil'd, 

Awhile  the  happy  gathering  toil'd, — 

While  Shon  and  Jean  at  the  table  ends 

Sliook  hands  with  a  hundred  of  their  friends,— 

Then  came  a  hush.     Thro'  the  open  door 

A  woe  bright  Form  flash'd  on  the  door, — 

The  Duke  himself,  in  the  kilt  and  plaid, 

With  slim  soft  knees,  like  the  knees  of  a  maid, 

Ami  took  a  glass,  and  ho  cried  out  plain 

"  I  drink  to  the  health  of  Shon  Maclean  ! 

To  Shon  the  Piper,  and  Jean  his  wife, 

A  clean  fireside  and  a  merry  life  ! " 

Then  out  he  slipt,  and  each  man  sprang 

To  his  feet,  and  with  "  hooch  "  the  chamber  rang  I 

"  Clear  the  tables,"  shrieked  out  one  — 

A  leap,  a  scramble,  the  thing  was  done  I 

And  then  the  Pipers  all  in  a  row 

Tuned  their  pipes  and  began  to  blow 

AVhile  all  to  dance  stood  fain : 
Sandy  of  Isla  and  Earach  More, 
Dougal  Dhu  from  Kilflannan  shore, 
Played  up  the  company  on  the  floor 

At  the  wedding  of  Shou  Maclean. 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean 

Twenty  Pipers  together 
Stood  up,  while  all  their  train 

Ceased  their  clatter  and  blether, 
Full  of  the  mountain-dew, 
First  on  their  pipes  they  blew, 
Mighty  of  bone  and  thow, 

Red-cheek 'd  with  lungs  of  leather ; 
And  every  Piper  was  fu' 

Twenty  Pipers  together. 

Who  led  the  dance  ?    In  pomp  and  pride 

The  Duke  himself  led  out  the  Bride. 

Great  was  the  joy  of  each  beholder, 

For  the  wee  Duke  only  reach'd  her  shoulder : 

And  they  danced,  and  turned,  when  the  reel  began, 

Like  a  giantess  and  a  fairy  man  ! 

But  like  an  earthquake  was  the  din 

When  Shon  himself  led  the  Duchess  in ! 

And  she  took  her  place  before  them  there, 


Like  a  white  mouse  dancing  with  a  bear. 
How  the  little  Duchess,  so  slim  and  sweet, 
Her  blue  eyea  watching  Shon's  great  feet, 
With  a  smile  which  could  not  be  resisted, 
Jigged,  and  jumped,  and  twirl'd,  and  twisted  I 
Sandy  of  Isla  led  off  the  reel, 
The  Duke  began  it  with  toe  and  heel, 

Then  all  joined  in  full  fain ; 
Twenty  Pipers  ranged  in  a  row, 
From  squinting  Sliamus  to  lame  Kilcroe, 
Their  cheeks  like  crimson,  began  to  blow. 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean. 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean 

They  blew  with  lungs  of  leather, 
And  blithesome  was  the  strain 

Those  Pipers  played  together  I 
Moist  with  the  mountain  dew, 
Mighty  of  bone  and  thew, 
Each  with  a  bonnet  o'  blue, 

Tartan,  and  blackcock  feather; 
And  every  piper  was  fu' 

Twenty  Pipers  together  I 

Oh  for  a  magic  tongue  to  tell 

Of  all  the  wonders  that  befell ! 

Of  how  the  Duke,  when  the  first  stave  died, 

Reached  up  on  tiptoe  to  kiss  the  Bride, 

While  Sandy's  pipes,  as  their  mouths  were  meeting, 

SkiiTd  and  set  every  heart  abeating. 

Then  Shon  took  the  pipes !  and  all  was  still, 

As  silently  he  the  bags  did  fill, 

With  flaming  cheeks  and  round  bright  eyes, 

Till  the  first  faint  music  began  to  rise. 

Like  a  thousand  laverocks  singing  in  tune, 

Like  countless  corn-craiks  under  the  moon, 

Like  the  smack  of  kisses,  like  sweet  bells  ringing, 

Like  a  mermaid's  harp,  or  a  kelpie  singing, 

Clew  the  pipes  of  Shon  ;  and  the  witching  strain 

Was  the  gathering  song  of  the  Clan  Maclean ! 

Then  slowly,  gently,  at  his  side, 

\11  the  Pipers  around  replied, 

And  swelled  the  glorious  strain  ; 
The  hearts  of  all  were  proud  and  light, 
To  hear  the  music,  to  gee  the  sight, 
And  the  Duke's  own  eyes  were  dim  that  night, 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean. 

So  to  honor  the  Clan  Maclean 

Straight  they  began  to  gather, 
Blowing  the  wild  refrain, 

"  Blue  bonnets  across  the  heather !  " 
They  stemp'd,  they  strutted,  they  blow  ; 
They  shriek'd  ;   like  cocks  they  crew  ; 
Blowing  the  notes  out  true, 

With  wonderful  lungs  of  leather : 
And  every  piper  was  fu', 

Twenty  Pipers  together ! 

When  the  Duke  and  Duchess  went  away 
The  dance  grew  mad  and  the  fun  grow  gay ; 
Man  and  Maiden,  face  to  face. 


56 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  TREES. 


Leapt  and  footed  .and  ecream'd  apace  ! 

Round  ;md  round  the  dancers  whirl' J, 

Shriller,  louder,  the  Pipers  skirl'd 

Till  the  sjul  seem'd  swooning  into  sound, 

And  all  creation  was  whirling  round. 

Then,  in  a  pause  of  the  dance  and  glee, 

The  Pipers,  ceasing  their  mUistrelsie, 

Draining  the  gliiss  in  groups  did  stand, 

And  passed  the  snuff-box  from  hand  to  hand, 

Sandy  of  Isla,  with  locks  of  snow, 

Squinting  Shamus,  blind  Kilmahoe, 

Finlay  Beg,  and  Earach  Mora, 

Dougal  Dim  of  Kililanuan  siiore — 

All  the  Pipers,  black,  yellow,  and  green, 

All  the  colors  that  ever  were  sjen. 

All  the  Pipers  of  all  the  Macs, 

Gather'd  together  and  took  their  cracks. 

Tlten  (no  man  knows  how  the  thing  befell, 

For  none  was  sober  enough  to  tell), 

These  heavenly  pipers  from  twenty  places 

Began  disputing  with  crimson  faces  ; 

Each  asserting,  like  one  demented, 

The  claims  of  the  clan  ho  represented. 

In  vain  grey  Sandy  of  Isla  strove 

To  soothe  their  struggle  with  words  of  love, 

Asserting  there,  like  a  gentleman, 

The  superior  claims  of  his  own  great  clan  ; 

Then  finding  to  reason  is  to  despair, 

llu  seizes  his  pipes  and  he  plays  an  air — 

The  gathering  time  of  his  clan — and  tries 

To  drown  in  music  the  shrieks  and  cries. 

Heavens !    Every  Piper,  grown  mad  with  ire, 

Seizes  his  pipes  with  a  fierce  desire, 

And  blowing  madly,  with  flourish  and  squeak, 

Begins  his  particular  tune  to  shriek  ! 

Up  and  down  the  gamut  they  go, 

Twenty  Pipers,  all  in  a  row, 

Each  with  a  different  strain, 
Each  tries  hard  to  drown  the  first, 
Kach  blows  louder  till  like  to  burst. 
Thus  were  the  tunes  of  the  Clans  rehearst 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean  ! 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean, 

Twenty  pipers  together, 
i  Blowing  with  might  and  main 

Thro'  wonderful  lungs  of  leather : 
Wild  was  the  hullabaloo ! 
They  strutted,  they  scream'd,  they  crew  I 
Twenty  wild  strains  they  blew, 

Holding  the  heart  in  tether ; 
And  every  piper  was  fu,' 

Twenty  Pipers  together. 

A  storm  of  music  !    Like  wild  sleuth-hounda 

Contending  together  were  the  sounds. 

At  List  a  bevy  of  Eve's  bright  daughters 

Pour'd  oil— that's  whiskey— upon  the  waters, 

And  after  another  glass  went  down 

The  Pipers  chuckled  and  ceased  to  frown. 


Embraced  like  brothers  and  kindred  spirit*, 

And  fully  admitted  each  other's  merits. 

All  bliss  must  end!    For  now  the  Bride 

Was  looking  weary  and  heavy-eyed, 

And  soon  she  stole  from  the  drinking  chorus, 

While  the  company  settled  to  deoch-an-dorus. 

One  hour— another — took  its  flight— 

The  clock  struck  twelve— the  dead  of  night— 

And  still  the  Bride  like  a  rose  so  red 

Lay  lonely  up  in  the  bridal  bed. 

At  half-past  two  the  Bridegroom,  Shon, 

Dropt  on  the  table  as  heavy  as  stone, 

And  four  strong  Pipers  across  the  floor 

Carried  him  up  to  the  bridal  door, 

Push'd  him  in  at  the  open  portal, 

And  left  him  snoring,  serene  and  mortal. 

The  small  stars  twinkled  over  the  heather, 

As  the  Pipers  wandered  away  together, 

But  one  by  one  on  the  journey  dropt, 

Clutching  his  pipes  and  there  he  stopt. 

One  by  one  on  the  dark  hillside 

Each  faint  wail  of  the  bagpipes  died, 

Amid  the  wind  and  the  rain ! 
And  twenty  Pipers  at  bre.ik  of  day 
In  twenty  different  bogholes  lay, 
Serenely  sleeping  upon  their  way 

From  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean ! 

ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  TREES. 

HENRY  WARD  BEECHEII,  an  American  pulpit  orator 
and  versatile  writer,  born  in  Litchfield,  Connecticut, 
June  21, 131-5,  has  boon  pastor  of  Plymouth  Church, 
Brooklyn,  N.  T.,  since  1817.  As  the  zealous  and  elo- 
quent advocate  of  political  reforms,  a  copious  contribu- 
tor to  the  press,  and  a  platform  lecturer  constantly  in 
demand,  Mr.  Beecher  has  acquired  the  widest  popular- 
ity. His  style  is  vigorous,  effervescent,  and  frequently 
poetic  and  imaginative.  His  published  volumes,  ex- 
cepting "  A  Life  of  Christ"  and  "  Norwood"  a.  novel  of 
New  England  life,  are  reproductions  of  his  sermons, 
lectures,  and  voluminous  contributions  to  periodicals. 

To  the  great  tree-loving  fraternity  we  be- 
long. We  love  trees  with  universal  and  un- 
feigned love,  and  all  things  that  do  grow  un- 
der them,  or  around  them — "the  whole  leaf 
and  root  tribe.  "  Not  alone  where  they  are 
in  their  glory,  but  in  whatever  state  they 
are — in  leaf,  or  ruined  with  frost,  or  pow- 
dered with  snow,  or  crystal  sheathed  in  ice, 
or  in  severe  outline  stripped  and  bare  against 
a  November  sky — we  love  them.  Our  heart 
warms  at  the  sight  of  even  a  board  or  a  log. 
A  lumber-yard  is  better  than  nothing.  The 
smell  of  wood,  at  least,  is  there,  the  savory 
fragrance  of  resin,  as  sweet  as  myrrh  and 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  TREES. 


57 


frankincense  ever  was  to  a  Jew.  If  we  can 
get  nothing  better,  we  love  to  read  over  the 
names  of  trees  in  a  catalogue.  Many  an 
hour  have  we  sat  at  night,  when  after  excit- 
ing work,  we  needed  to  be  quieted,  and  read 
nurserymen's  catalogues,  and  London's  En- 
cyclopedias, and  Arboretum,  until  the  smell 
of  the  woods  exhaled  from  the  page, 
and  the  sound  of  leaves  was  in  our  ears,  and 
sylvan  glades  opened  to  our  eyes  that  would 
have  made  old  Chaucer  laugh  and  indite  a 
rapturous  rush  of  lines. 

But  how  much  more  do  we  love  trees  in  all 
their  summer  pomp  and  plenitude.  Not  for 
their  names  and  affinities,  not  for  their  secret 
physiology,  and  as  material  for  science ;  not 
for  any  reason  that  we  can  give,  except  that 
when  with  them  we  are  happy.  The  eye  is 
full,  the  ear  is  full,  the  whole  sense  and  all 
the  tastes  solaced,  and  our  whole  nature  re- 
joices with  that  various  and  full  happiness 
which  one  has  when  the  soul  is  suspended 
in  the  midst  of  Beethoven's  symphonies  and 
is  lifted  hither  and  thither,  as  if  blown  by 
sweet  sounds  through  the  airy  passage  of  a 
full  heavenly  dream. 

Our  first  excursion  in  Lenox  was  one  of 
salutation  to  our  notable  trees.  We  had  a 
nervous  anxiety  to  see  that  the  axe  had  not 
hewn,  nor  the  lightning  struck  them  ;  that 
no  worm  had  gnawed  at  the  root,  or  cattle  at 
the  trunk ;  that  their  branches  were  not 
broken,  nor  their  leaves  failing  from  drought. 
We  found  them  all  standing  in  their  upright- 
ness. They  lifted  up  their  heads  towards 
heaven,  and  sent  down  to  us  from  all  their 
boughs  a  leafy  whisper  of  recognition  and 
affection.  Blessed  be  the  dew  that  cools  their 
evening  leaves,  and  the  rains  that  quench 
their  daily  thirst!  May  the  storm  be  as 
merciful  to  them  when  in  winter  it  roars 
through  their  branches,  as  is  a  harper  to  his 
harp !  Let  the  snow  lie  lightly  on  their 
boaghs,  and  long  hence  be  the  summer  that 
shall  find  no  leaves  to  clothe  these  nobles  of 
the  pasture  ! 

First  in  our  regard,  as  it  is  in  the  whole 
nobility  of  trees,  stands  the  white  elm,  no 
less  esteemed  because  it  is  an  American  tree, 
known  abroad  only  by  importation,  and  nev- 
er seen  in  all  its  magnificence,  except  in  our 
own  valleys.  The  old  oaks  of  England 
are  very  excellent  in  their  way,  gnarled  and 
rugged.  The  elm  has  strength  as  sig- 
nificant as  they,  and  a  grace,  a  royalty,  that 
leaves  the  oak  like  a  boor  in  comparison. 
Had  the  elm  been  an  English  tree,  and  had 
Chaucer  seen  and  loved  and  sung  it ;  had 
Shakespeare  and  every  English  poet  hung 
some  garlands  upon  it,  it  would  have  lifted 
up  its  head  now,  not  only  the  noblest  of  all 


growing  things,  but  enshrined  in  a  thousand 
rich  associations  of  history  and  literature. 

Who  ever  sees  a  hawthorn  or  a  sweet  brier 
(the  eglantine),  that  his  thoughts  do  not,  like 
a  bolt  of  light,  burst  through  ranks  of  poets, 
and  ranges  of  sparkling  conceits  which  have 
been  born  since  England  had  a  written  lan- 
guage, and  of  which  the  rose,  the  willow,  the 
eglantine,  the  hawthorn,  and  other  scores  of 
vines  or  trees,  have  been  the  cause,  as  they 
are  now  and  forevermore  the  suggestors  and 
remembrancers  ?  Who  ever  looks  upon  an 
oak,  and  does  not  think  of  navies,  of  storms, 
of  battles  on  the  ocean,  of  the  noble  lyrics  of 
the  sea,  of  English  glades,  of  the  fugitive 
Charles,  the  tree-mounted  monarch,  of  the 
Herne  oak,  of  parks  and  forests,  of  Robin 
Hood  and  his  merry  men  ;  Friar  Tuck  not 
excepted,  of  old  baronial  halls  with  mellow 
light  streaming  through  diamond-shaped 
panes  upon  oaken  floors,  and  of  carved  oaken 
wainscotings.  And  who  that  has  ever  trav- 
eled in  English  second-class  cushionless  cars 
has  not  other  and  less  genial  remembrances 
of  the  enduring  solidity  of  the  impervious 
unelastic  oak  ? 

One  stalwart  oak  I  have,  and  only  one,  yet 
discovered.  On  my  west  line  is  a  fringe  of 
forest,  through  which  rushes,  in  Spring, 
trickles  in  early  summer,  and  dies  out  entire- 
ly in  August,  the  issues  of  a  noble  spring 
from  the  near  hillside.  On  the  eastern  edge 
of  this  belt  of  trees  stands  the  monarchical 
oak,  wide-branching  on  the  east  toward  the 
open  pasture  and  the  free  light,  but  on  its 
western  side  lean  and  branchless  from  the 
pressure  of  neighboring  trees ;  for  trees, 
like  men,  can  not  grow  to  the  real  nature 
that  is  in  them  when  crowded  by  too  much 
society.  Both  need  to  be  touched  on  every 
side  by  sun  and  air,  and  by  nothing  else,  if 
they  are  to  be  rounded  out  into  full  symmetry. 
Growing  right  up  by  its  side,4  and  through 
its  branches  is  a  long  wifely  elm — beauty  and 
grace  imbosomed  by  strength.  Their  leaves 
come  and  go  together,  and  all  the  summer 
long  they  mingle  their  rustling  harmonies. 
Their  roots  pasture  in  the  same  soil, 
nor  could  either  of  them  be  hewn  down  with- 
out tearing  away  the  branches  and  marring 
the  beauty  of  the  other.  And  a  tree,  when 
thoroughly  disbranched,  may,  by  time  and 
care,  regain  its  health  again,  but  never  its 
beauty. 

Under  this  oak  I  love  to  sit  and  hear  all 
the  things  which  its  leaves  have  to  tell.  No 
printed  leaves  have  more  treasures  of  history 
or  of  literature  to  those  who  know  how  to 
listen.  But,  if  clouds  kindly  shield  us  from 
the  sun,  we  love  as  well  to  couch  down  on 
the  grass  some  thirty  yards  off,  and  amidst 


58 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  TREES. 


the  fragrant  smell  of  crushed  herbs,  to  watch 
the  fancies  of  the  trees  and  clouds.  The 
roguish  winds  will  never  be  done  teasing  the 
leaves,  that  run  away  and  come  back,  with 
nimble  playfulness.  Now  and  then  a  strong- 
er puff  dashes  up  the  leaves,  showing  the 
downy  under  surfaces  that  flash  white  all 
along  the  up-blown  and  tremulous  forest- 
edge.  Now  the  wind  draws  back  his  breath, 
and  all  the  woods  are  still.  Then  some  sin- 
gle leaf  is  tickled,  and  quivers  all  alone.  I 
am  sure  there  is  no  wind.  The  other  leaves 
about  it  are  still.  Where  it  gets  its  motion  I 
can  not  tell,  but  there  it  goes  fanning  itself 
and  restless  among  its  sober  fellows.  By 
and  by  one  or  two  others  catch  the  impulse. 
The  rest  hold  out  a  moment,  but  soon  catch- 
ing the  contagious  merriment,  away  goes  the 
whole  tree  and  all  its  neighbors,  the  leaves 
running  in  ripples  all  down  the  forest  side. 
I  expect  almost  to  hear  them  laugh  out  loud. 
A  stroke  of  wind  upon  the  forest,  indolently 
swelling  and  subsiding,  is  like  a  stroke  upon 
a  hive  of  bees,  for  sound  ;  and  like  stirring 
a  fire  full  of  sparks  for  upspringing  thougjits 
and  ideal  suggestions.  The  melodious  whirl 
draws  out  a  flittering  swarm  of  sweet  images 
that  play  before  the  eye  like  those  evening 
troops  of  gauzy  insects  that  hang  in  the  air 
between  you  and  the  sun,  and  pipe  their  own 
music,  and  flit  in  airy  rounds  of  mingled 
dance  as  if  the  whole  errand  of  their  lives 
was  to  swing  in  mazes  of  sweet  music. 

Different  species  of  trees  move  their  leaves 
very  differently,  so  that  one  may  sometimes 
tell  by  the  motion  of  shadows  on  the  ground, 
if  he  be  too  indolent  to  look  up,  under  what 
kind  of  tree  he  is  dozing.  On  the  tulip-tree, 
(which  has  the  finest  name  that  ever  tree  had, 
making  the  very  pronouncing  of  its  name 
almost  like  the  utterance  of  a  strain  of  music 
— liriodendron  tulipifera) — on  the  tulip-tree, 
the  aspen,  and  on  all  native  poplars,  the 
leaves  are  apparently  Anglo-Saxon  or  Ger- 
manic, having  an  intense  individualism. 
Each  one  moves  to  suit  itself.  Under  the 
same  wind  one  is  trilling  up  and  down,  an- 
other is  whirling,  another  slowly  vibrating 
right  and  left,  and  others  still,  quieting 
themselves  to  sleep,  as  a  mother  gently  pats 
her  slumbering  child  ;  and  each  one  intent 
upon  a  motion  of  its  own.  Sometimes  other 
trees  have  single  frisky  leaves,  but,  usually, 
the  oaks,  maples,  beeches,  have  community 
of  motion.  They  are  all  acting  together,  or 
all  are  alike  still. 

What  is  sweeter  than  a  murmur  of  leaves, 
unless  it  be  the  musical  gurgling  of  water 
that  runs  secretly  and  cuts  under  the  roots 
of  these  trees,  and  makes  little  bubbling  pools 
that  laugh  to  see  the  drops  stumble  over  the 


root  and  plump  down  into  its  bosom  !  In 
such  nooks  could  trout  lie.  Unless  ye  would 
become  mermaids,  keep  far  from  such  places, 
all  innocent  grasshoppers,  and  all  ebony 
crickets !  Do  not  believe  in  appearances. 
You  peer  over  and  know  that  there  is  no 
danger.  You  can  see  the  radiant  gravel. 
You  know  that  no  enemy  lurks  in  that  fairy 
pool.  You  can  see  every  nook  and  corner  of 
it,  and  it  is  as  sweet  a  tathing  pool  as  ever 
was  swam  by  long-legged  grasshoppers.  Over 
the  root  comes  a  butterfly  with  both  sails  a 
little  drabbled,  and  quicker  than  light,  he 
is  plucked  down,  leaving  three  or  four  bub- 
bles behind  him,  fit  emblems  of  a  butterfly's 
life.  There !  did  I  not  tell  you  ?  Now  go 
away  all  maiden  crickets  and  grasshoppers  ! 
These  fair  surfaces,  so  pure,  so  crystaline,  so 
surely  safe,  have  a  trout  somewhere  in  them 
lying  in  wait  for  you  ! 

But  what  if  one  sits  between  both  kinds  of 
music,  leaves  above  and  water  below  ?  What 
if  birds  are  among  the  leaves,  sending  out 
random  calls,  far  piercing  and  sweet,  as  if 
they  were  lovers  saying,  "  My  dear,  are  you 
there?"  If  you  are  half  reclining  upon  a 
cushion  of  fresh  new  moss,  that  swells  up  be- 
tween the  many-plied  and  twisted  roots  of  a 
huge  beech  tree,  and  if  you  have  been  there 
a  half  an  hour  without  moving,  and  if  you 
will  still  keep  motionless,  you  may  see  what 
they  who  only  walk  through  forests  never 
see.  *  *  * 

Thus  do  you  stand,  noble  elms  !  Lifted  up 
so  high  are  your  topmost  boughs,  that  no  in- 
dolent birds  care  to  seek  you ;  and  only 
those  of  nimble  wings,  and  they  with  un- 
wonted beat,  that  love  exertion,  and  aspire 
to  sing  where  none  sing  higher. — Aspiration  '. 
so  Heaven  gives  it  pure  as  flames  to  the  no- 
ble bosom.  But  debased  with  passion  and 
selfishness  it  comes  to  be  only  Ambition  ! 

It  was  in  the  presence  of  this  pasture-elm, 
which  we  name  the  Queen,  that  we  first  felt 
to  our  very  marrow,  that  we  had  indeed  be- 
come owners  of  the  soil !  It  was  with  a  feel- 
ing of  awe  that  we  looked  up  into  its  face, 
and  when  I  whispered  to  myself,  This  is 
mine,  there  was  a  shrinking  as  if  there  were 
sacrilege  in  the  very  thought  of  property  in 
such  a  creature  of  God  as  this  cathedral-top- 
ped tree  !  Does  a  man  bare  his  head  in  some 
old  church  ?  So  did  I,  standing  in  the  shad- 
ow of  this  regal  tree,  and  looking  up  into  that 
completed  glory,  at  which  three  hundred 
years  have  been  at  work  with  noiseless  fin- 
gers !  What  was  I  in  its  presence  but  a 
grasshopper?  My  heart  said  "I  may  not 
call  thee  property,  and  that  property  mine  ! 
Thou  belongest  to  the  air.  Ihou  ait  the 
child  of  summer.  Thou  art  the  mighty  tern- 


THE  SUICIDE  BANKER. 


59 


pie  where  birds  praise  God.  Thou  belongest 
to  no  man's  hand,  but  to  all  men's  eyes  that 
do  love  beauty,  and  that  have  learned  through 
beauty  to  behold  God  !  Stand,  then,  in  thine 
own  beauty  and  grandeur  !  I  shall  be  a  lov- 
er and  a  protector,  to  keep  drought  from  thy 
roots,  and  the  axe  from  thy  trunk." 

For,  remorseless  men  there  are  crawling 
yat  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  smitten  blind 
and  inwardly  dead,  whose  only  thought  of  a 
tree  of  ages  is,  that  it  is  food  for  the  axe  and 
the  saw !  These  are  the  wretches  of  whom 
the  Scripture  speaks  :  "A  man  was  famous 
according  as  he  had  lifted  up  axes  upon  the 
thick  trees." 

Thus  famous,  or  rather  infamous  was  the 
last  owner  but  one,  before  me,  of  this  farm. 
Upon  the  crown  of  the  hill,  just  where  an 
artist  would  have  planted  them,  had  he  wish- 
ed to  have  them  exactly  in  the  right  place, 
grew  some  two  hundred  stalwart  and  an- 
cient maples,  beeches.,  ashes,  and  oaks,  a  nar- 
row belt-like  forest,  forming  a  screen  from 
the  northern  and  western  winds  in  winter, 
and  a  harp  of  endless  music  for  the  summer. 
The  wretched  owner  of  this  farm  tempted  of 
the  Devil,  cut  down  the  whole  blessed  band 
and  brotherhood  of  trees,  that  he  might  fill 
his  pocket  with  two  pitiful  dollars  a  cord  for 
the  wood!  Well,  his  pocket  was  the  best 
part  of  him.  The  iron  furnaces  have  devour- 
ed my  grove,  and  their  huge  stumps,  that 
stood  like  gravestones,  have  been  cleared 
away,  that  a  grove  may  be  planted  in  the 
same  spot,  for  the  next  hundred  years  to 
nourish  into  the  stature  and  glory  of  that 
which  is  gone. 

In  other  places,  I  find  the  memorials  of 
many  noble  trees  slain ;  here,  a  hemlock  that 
carried  up  its  eternal  green  a  hundred  feet 
into  the  winter  air ;  there,  a  huge  double- 
trunked  chestnut,  dear  old  grandfather  of 
hundreds  of  children  that  have  for  genera- 
tions clubbed  its  boughs,  or  shook  its  nut- 
laden  top,  and  laughed  and  shouted  as  bush- 
els of  chestnuts  rattled  down.  Now,  the  tree 
exists  only  in  the  form  of  looped-holed  posts 
and  weather-browned  rails.  I  do  hope  the 
fellow  got  a  shiver  in  his  fingers  every  time 
he  touched  the  hemlock  plank,  or  let  down 
the  b  irs  made  of  those  chestnut  rails  ! 

To  most  people  a  grove  is  a  grove,  and  all 
groves  are  alike.  But  no  two  groves  are 
alike.  There  is  as  marked  a  difference  be- 
tween different  forests  as  between  different 
communities.  A  grove  of  pines  without  un- 
derbrush, carpeted  with  the  fine-fingered 
russet  leaves  of  the  pine,  and  odorous  of  res- 
inous gums,  has  scarcely  a  trace  of  likeness  to 
a  maple  woods,  either  in  the  insects,  the 
birds,  the  shrubs,  the  light  anJ  shade,  or  the 


sound  of  its  leaves.  If  we  lived  in  olden 
times  among  young  mythologies,  we  should 
say  that  pines  held  the  imprisoned  spirit  of 
naiads  and  water-nyrnphs,  and  that  their 
sounds  were  of  the  water  for  whose  lucid 
depths  they  always  sighed.  At  any  rate,  the 
first  pines  must  have  grown  on  the  sea-shore, 
and  learned  their  first  accents  from  the  surf 
and  the  waves  ;  and  all  their  posterity  have 
inherited  the  sound,  and  borne  it  inland  to 
the  mountains. 

I  like  best  a  forest  of  mingled  trees,  ash, 
maple,  oak,  beech,  hickory,  and  evergreens, 
with  birches  growing  along  the  edges  of  the 
brook  that  carries  itself  through  the  roots  and 
stones,  toward  the  willows  that  grow  in  yon- 
der meadow.  It  should  be  deep  and  sombre 
in  some  directions,  running  off  into  shadowy 
recesses  and  coverts  beyond  all  footsteps.  In 
such  a  wood  there  is  endless  variety.  It  will 
breathe  as  many  voices  to  your  fancy  as 
might  be  brought  from  any  organ  beneath  the 
pressure  of  some  Handel's  hands.  By  the 
way,  Handel  and  Beethoven  always  remind 
me  of  forests.  So  do  some  poets,  whose  num- 
bers are  various  as  the  infinity  of  vegetation, 
fine  as  the  choicest  cut  leaves,  strong  and 
rugged  in  places  as  the  unbarked  trunk  and 
gnarled  roots  at  the  ground's  surface.  Is 
there  any  other  place,  except  the  sea-side, 
where  hours  are  so  short  and  moments  so 
swift  as  in  a  forest  ?  AVhere  else  except  in 
the  rare  communion  of  those  friends  much 
loved,  do  we  awake  from  pleasure,  whose 
calm  flow  is  without  a  ripple,  into  surprise 
that  whole  hours  are  gone  which  we  thought 
but  just  begun — blossomed  and  dropped, 
which  we  thought  but  just  budding! 

HENBY  WARD  BEECHER. 


THE  SUICIDE  BANKER. 

I  have  said  that  in  1854  the  tide  had  turned 
with  John  Sadleir.  Alas !  throughout  that 
year,  and  all  the  weary  days  of  1855,  un- 
known to  even  his  nearest  and  dearest  friends, 
he  was  suffering  tortures  indescribable ! 
Some  of  his  colossal  speculations  had  turned 
out  adversely ;  and  he  had  misappropriated 
the  last  shilling  of  the  Tipperary  Bank. 
Another  venture,  he  thinks,  may  recoup  all : 
it  only  leads  to  deeper  ruin !  He  must  go  on : 
he  cannot  turn  back  now.  But  where  are  the 
funds  to  be  reached  for  further  wild  endea- 
vors ?  All  calmly  as  ever  he  had  trod  the 
lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons.  No  eye 
could  detect  on  that  impassive  countenance  of 
his  that  there  was  aught  but  the  satisfaction 
of  success  within.  His  political  associates 
joked  with  him  over  Gavan  Duffy's  "  political 


60 


THE  SUICIDE  BANKER. 


funeral."  They  effusively  felicitated  him  on 
the  signal  overthrow  and  final  dispersion  of 
his  adversaries.  "  Ireland  is  now  your  own, 
Jolin,"'  said  one  of  them;  "you  have  con- 
quered all  along  the  line.  You  must  be  as 
happy  as  a  king!  "  He  smiled  his  cold  sad 
smile,  and  said,  Yes,  to  be  sure  he  was.  At 
h'jme  in  Ireland  his  own  journal,  and  all  the 
Liberal  Government  organs,  were  never  tired 
of  sounding  his  praise  and  proclaiming  his 
triumph  over  the  dead  Lucas  and  the  exiled 
Dutfy. 

Nightly,  after  leaving  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, John  Sadleir  sat  up  late  in  the  private 
study  of  his  town  house,  11,  Glo'ster  Terrace, 
Hyde  Park.  Morning  often  dawned  and 
found  him  at  his  lonely  labors.  What  were 
they  ? 

In  the  stillness  and  secrecy  of  those  mid- 
night hours  John  Sadleir,  the  man  of  success, 
the  millionaire,  the  Lord  of  the  Treasury  that 
had  been,  the  peer  of  the  realm  that  was  to 
be,  was  occupied  in  forging  deeds,  convey- 
ances, and  bills  for  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
pounds ! 

Still,  accumulating  disaster  overpowered 
even  these  resources  of  fraud.  In  the  second 
week  of  February,  1856,  some  one  of  his 
numerous  desperate  financial  expedients  hap- 
pened to  miscarry  for  a  day,  and  the  drafts 
of  the  Tipperary  Bank  were  dishonored  at 
Glyn's.  The  news  came  with  a  stunning 
shock  on  most  people ;  but  quickly,  next  day, 
an  announcement  was  issued  that  it  was  all 
a  mistake, — the  drafts  presented  anew  had 
been  duly  met,  and  the  mischance  would  not 
again  befall.  The  alarm,  however,  had 
reached  Ireland,  and  at  several  of  the 
branches  something  akin  to  a  run  took  place. 
If  only  a  panic  could  be  averted,  and  twenty 
or  thirty  thousand  pounds  obtained,  all  might 
be  saved.  So,  at  least,  declared  Mr.  James 
Sadleir,  M.  P.,  who  was  in  charge  of  affairs 
in  Ireland,  telegraphing  to  John  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Saturday,  16th  of  February.*  Twenty 
or  thirty  thousand  pounds.  Once  it  was  a 
bagatelle  in  his  estimation ;  but  now !  He 
had  lain  on  no  bed  the  night  before.  All 
haggard  and  excited  this  message  found  him. 
James  little  knew  all  when  he  thus  lightly 
spoke  of  twenty  or  thirty  thousand  pounds, 
by  way  of  reassuring  his  hapless  brother. 
The  wretched  man  strove  in  vain  to  devise 


*  "  Feb.  16,  1856. — Telegram  from  James  Sadleir,  30 
Morion  Square  South,  Dublin,  to  John  Sadleir,  Esq.,  M. 
P.,  Reform  Club,  London  :  AH  right  at  all  the  branches  ; 
only  a  few  small  things  refused  there.  If  from  twenty 
to  thirty  thousand  over  here  on  Monday  morning  all  ii 
eafe." 


some  yet  unexhausted  means  of  raising  this 
money.  He  had  already  gone  so  far,  so  peril- 
ously far,  that  there  was  no  possible  quarter 
in  which  earnest  application  might  not  lead 
to  suspicions  that  would  involve  discovery ! 
He  drove  into  the  city.  Mr.  Wilkinson,  of 
Nicholas  Lane,  telling  the  sad  affair  subse- 
quently, says,  "  He  came  to  me  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Saturday,  and  suggested  that  I  could 
raise  some  money  with  the  view  of  assisting 
the  Tipperary  Bank.  He  showed  me  some 
telegraphic  messages  he  had  received  from 
Ireland  on  the  subject  of  their  wants.  He 
had  several  schemes  by  which  he  thought  I 
could  assist  him  in  raising  money ;  but  after 
going  into  them  I  told  him  I  could  not  help 
him,  the  schemes  being  such  as  1  could  not 
recommend  or  adopt.  He  then  became  very 
excited,  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  said. 
'  Good  God !  if  the  Tipperary  Bank  should 
fail  the  fault  will  be  entirely  mine,  and  I 
shall  have  been  the  ruin  of  hundreds  and 
thousands.'  He  walked  about  the  office  in  a 
very  excited  state,  and  urged  me  to  try  and 
help  him,  because,  he  said,  he  could  not  live 
to  see  the  pain  and  ruin  inflicted  on  others  by 
the  cessation  of  the  bank.  The  interview 
ended  in  this,  that  I  was  unable  to  assist  him 
in  his  plans  to  raise  money." 

In  this  case,  what  he  leared  in  so  many 
others  exactly  occurred.  Mr.  Wilkinson  had 
previously  advanced  him  large  sums,  for 
which,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Sadleir,  on  request, 
had  given  security, — one  of  those  numerous 
title-deeds  which  he  had  fabricated  during 
the  past  year.  Mr.  Wilkinson  that  same 
Saturday  night  despatched  his  partner,  Mr. 
Stevens,  to  Dublin,  to  look  after  the  matter. 
On  Monday  this  gentleman  found  that  the 
deed  was  a  forgery.  But  by  that  time  a  still 
more  dreadful  tale  was  known  to  all  the 
world. 

There  is  reason  to  think  John  Sadleir  knew 
of  Mr.  St evens' s  start  for  Dublin  before  ten 
o'clock  that  evening.  His  intimate  friend, 
Mr.  Norris,  solicitor,  of  Bedford  Row,  called  on 
him  about  half-past  ten,  and  remained  half  an 
hour.  The  fact  was  discussed  between  them 
that  the  Tipperary  Bank  must  stop  payment 
on  Monday  morning. 

John  Sadleir  sat  him  down,  all  alone,  in 
that  study,  and  callous  must  be  the  heart  that 
can  contemplate  him  in  that  hour  and  nrt 
compassionate  his  agony.  All  was  over :  he 
must  die.  He  was  yet,  indeed,  in  the  prime 
and  vigor  of  manhood.  "Considerably  above 
the  middle  height,"  says  one  who  knew  him 
well,  "  his  figure  was  youthful,  but  his  face, 
— that  was  indeed  remarkable.  Strongly 
marked,  sallow,  eyes  and  hair  intensely 
black,  and  the  lines  of  the  mouth  worn  into 


CARCASSONNE. 


61 


deep  channels."  The  busy  schemes,  the 
lofty  ambitions,  the  daring  speculations,  were 
ended  now.  The  poorest  cottier  on  a  Tipper- 
ary  hill-side  might  look  the  morrow  in  the 
face  and  cling  to  life ;  but  for  him,  the 
envied  man  of  thousands,  the  morning  sun 
must  rise  in  vain.  He  seized  a  pen,  and  de- 
voted half  an  hour  to  letter-writing.  Oh, 
that  woful  correspondence  of  the  despairing 
s  >ul  with  those  whom  it  loves,  and  is  to  lose 
forever!  Then  he  took  a  small  silver  tankard 
from  the  sideboard  and  put  it  in  his  breast- 
pocket, beside  a  small  phial  which  he  had 
purchase  1  early  in  that  fatal  day.  As  he 
passed  through  the  hall  and  took  his  hat  from 
the  stand,  he  told  the  butler  not  to  wait  up 
for  him.  He  went  out,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him  with  a  firm  hand.  The  clocks 
were  striking  twelve  :  'twas  Sunday  morning; 
God's  holy  day  had  come.  Ah,  far  away  on 
the  Suir  side  were  an  aged  father  and  mother, 
with  whom  when  a  child  he  often  trod  the 
path  to  early  mass,  when  Sunday  bells  were 
music  to  his  ear  !  And  now  ! — oh,  fatal 
lure  of  wealth  !  oh,  damned,  mocking  fiend  ! 
— to  this,  to  this  it  had  come  at  last !  He 
dare  not  think  of  God,  or  friend,  or  home — 

Next  morning,  on  a  little  mound  on  Hamp- 
stead  Heath,  the  passers-by  noticed  a  gentle- 
man stretched  as  if  in  sleep.  A  silver 
tankard  had  fallen  from  his  hand  and  lay 
upon  the  ground.  It  smelt  strongly  of 
prussic  acid.  A  crowd  soon  gathered  ;  the 
I  police  arrived ;  they  lifted  up  the  body,  all 
stiff  and  stark.  It  was  the  corpse  of  John 
Sadleir,  the  banker. 

On  Monday  the  news  flashed  through  the 
kingdom.  There  was  alarm  in  London ; 
there  was  wild  panic  in  Ireland.  The  Tip- 
perary  Bank  closed  its  doors  ;  the  country 
people  nocked  into  the  towns.  They  sur- 
rounded and  attacked  the  branches :  the  poor 
victims  imagined  their  money  must  be  with- 
in, and  they  got  crowbars,  picks,  and  spades 
to  force  the  walls  and  "dig  it  out."  The 
scenes  of  mad  despair  which  the  streets  of 
Thurles  and  Tipperary  saw  that  day  would 
melt  a  heart  of  adamant.  Old  men  went 
about  like  maniacs,  confused  and  hysterical ; 
widows  knelt  in  the  street  and,  aloud,  asked 
God  was  it  true  they  were  beggared  for  ever. 
Even  the  poor-law  unions,  which  had  kept 
their  accounts  in  the  bank,  lost  all,  and  had 
not  a  shilling  to  buy  the  paupers'  dinner  the 
day  the  branch  doors  closed. 

The  letters  which  the  unhappy  suicide 
penned  that  Saturday  night  reveal  much  of 
the  terrible  story  so  long  hidden  from  the 
world. 

Banks,    railways,    assurance    associations, 


land  companies,  every  undertaking  with 
which  he  had  been  connected,  were  flung 
into  dismay,  and  for  months  fresh  revelations 
of  fraud,  forgery,  and  robbery  came  daily 
and  hourly  to  view.  By  the  month  of  April 
the  total  of  such  discoveries  had  readied  one 
million  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
pounds. 

A.  M.  SULLIVAN,  M.  P. 


CARCASSONNE. 

FEOM   THE   FRENCH   OF   GUSTAVE   NADATJE. 

I'm  growing  old,  I've  sixty  years ; 

I've  labored  all  my  life  in  vain : 
In  all  that  time  of  hopes  and  fears 

I've  failed  my  dearest  wish  to  gain. 
I  see  full  well  that  here  below 

Bliss  unalloyed  there  is  for  none. 
My  prayer  will  ne'er  fulfillment  know— 

I  never  have  seen  Carcassonne, 

I  never  have  seen  Carcassonne  ! 

You  see  the  city  from  the  hill, 
It  lies  beyond  the  mountains  blue, 

And  yet  to  reach  it  one  must  still 
Five  long  and  weary  leagues  pursue, 

And  to  retnrn  as  many  more  ! 
Ah  !  had  the  vintage  plenteous  grown ! 

The  grape  withheld  its  yellow  store : 
I  shall  not  look  on  Carcassonne, 
I  shall  not  look  on  Carcassonne  ! 

They  tell  me  every  day  is  there 
Not  more  nor  less  than  Sunday  gay : 

In  shining  robes  and  garments  fair 
The  people  walk  upon  their  way. 

One  gazes  there  on  castle  walls 
As  grand  as  those  of  Babylon, 

A  bishop  and  two  generals ! 
I  do  not  know  fair  Carcassonne, 
I  do  not  know  fair  Carcassonne  ! 

The  vicar's  right :  he  says  that  we 
Are  ever  wayward,  weak  and  blind ; 

Ho  tells  us  in  his  homily 
Ambition  ruins  all  mankind ; 

Yet  could  I  there  two  days  have  spent 
While  still  the  autumn  sweetly  shon«, 

Ah  me !  I  might  have  died  content 
When  I  had  looked  on  Carcassonne, 
When  I  had  looked  on  Carcassonne  1 

Thy  pardon,  Father,  I  beseech, 
In  this  my  prayer  if  I  offend : 

One  something  sees  beyond  his  reach 
From  childhood  to  his  journey's  end. 

My  wife,  our  little  boy  Aignan, 
Have  traveled  even  to  Narbonne ; 

My  grandchild  has  seen  Terpignan, 
And  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne, 
And  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne  1 


A  NIGHT  OF  TERROR. 


So  crooned  one  day,  close  by  Limoux, 

A  peasant  double-bent  with  age. 
"  Rise  up,  my  friend,"  said  I :  "with  you 

I'll  go  upon  this  pilgrimage." 
Wt  left  next  morning  his  abode, 

But  ( Heaven  forgive  him ! )  halfway  on, 
The  old  man  died  upon  the  road : 

He  never  gazed  on  Carcassonne. 

Each  mortal  has  his  Carcassonne  ! 

— LippincoWs  Magazine. 


A  NIGHT  OF  TERROR. 

PAUL  LOUIS   COURIER. 

PAUL  Louis  COUTUER,  one  of  the  most  noted  of  French 
xumphleteers,  born  1772,  died  1825,  was  a  Liberal  in 
politics,  and  had  great  repute  as  an  eloquent  and  satiri- 
cal writer. 

I  was  one  day  traveling  in  Calabria ;  a 
country  of  people  who,  I  believe,  have  no 
great  liking  to  anybody,  and  are  particularly 
ill-disposed  towards  the  French.  To  tell  you 
why  would  be  a  long  affair.  It  is  enough 
that  they  hate  us  to  death,  and  that  the  un- 
happy being  who  should  chance  to  fall  into 
their  hands  would  not  pass  his  time  in  the 
most  agreeable  manner.  I  had  for  my  com- 
panion a  worthy  young  fellow  ;  I  do  not  say 
this  to  interest  you,  but  because  it  is  the 
truth.  In  these  mountains  the  roads  are 
precipices,  and  our  horses  advanced  with  the 
greatest  difficulty.  My  comrade  going  first, 
a  track  which  appeared  to  him  more  practi- 
cable and  shorter  than  the  regular  path,  led 
us  astray.  It  was  my  fault.  Ought  I  to  have 
trusted  to  a  head  of  twenty  years?  We 
sought  our  way  out  of  the  wood  while  it  was 
yet  light ;  but  the  more  we  looked  for  the 
path,  the  further  we  were  off  it. 

It  was  a  very  black  night,  when  we  came 
close  upon  a  very  black  house.  \Ve  went  in, 
and  not  without  suspicion.  But  what  was  to 
be  done  ?  There  we  found  a  whole  family  of 
charcoal-burners  at  table.  At  the  first  word 
they  invited  us  to  join  them.  My  young  man 
did  not  stop  for  much  ceremony.  In  a  min- 
ute or  two  we  were  eating  and  drinking  in 
right  earnest — he  at  least;  for  my  own  part 
I  could  not  help  glancing  about  at  the  place 
and  the  people.  Our  hosts,  indeed,  looked 
like  charcoal-burners  ;  but  the  house !  you 
would  have  taken  it  for  an  arsenal.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  muskets,  pistols, 
sabres,  knives,  cutlasses.  Everything  dis- 
pleased me,  and  I  saw  that  I  was  in  no  favor 
myself.  My  comrade,  on  the  contrary,  was 


soon  one  of  the  family.  He  laughed,  he 
chatted  with  them  ;  and  with  an  imprudence 
which  I  ought  to  have  prevented,  he  at  once 
said  where  we  came  from,  where  we  were 
going,  and  that  we  were  Frenchmen.  Think 
of  our  situation.  Here  we  were  among  our 
mortal  enemies — alone,  benighted,  and  far 
from  all  human  aid.  That  nothing  might  be 
omitted  that  could  tend  to  our  destruction,  he 
must,  forsooth,  play  the  rich  man,  promising 
these  folks  to  pay  them  well  for  their  hospi- 
tality ;  and  then  he  must  prate  about  his 
portmanteau,  earnestly  beseeching  them  to 
take  care  of  it,  and  put  it  at  the  head  of  his 
bed,  for  he  wanted  no  other  pillow.  Ah, 
youth,  youth !  how  art  thou  to  be  pitied ! 
Cousin,  they  might  have  thought  that  we 
carried  the  diamonds  of  the  crown  :  and  yet 
the  treasure  in  his  portmanteau,  which  gave 
him  so  much  anxiety,  consisted  only  of  some 
private  letters. 

Supper  ended,  they  left  us.  Our  hosts 
slept  below ;  we  on  the  story  where  we  had 
been  eating.  In  a  sort  of  platform  raised 
seven  or  eight  feet,  where  we  were  to  mount 
by  a  ladder,  was  the  bed  that  awaited  us — a 
nest  into  which  we  had  to  introduce  ourselves 
by  jumping  over  barrels  filled  with  provisions 
for  all  the  year.  My  comrade  seized  upon 
the  bed  above,  and  was  soon  fast  asleep,  with 
his  head  upon  the  precious  portmanteau.  I 
was  determined  to  keep  awake,  so  I  made  a 
good  fire,  and  sat  myself  down.  The  night 
was  almost  passed  over  tranquilly  enough, 
and  I  was  beginning  to  be  comfortable,  when 
just  at  the  time  it  appeared  to  me  that  day 
was  about  to  break,  I  heard  our  host  and  his 
wife  talking  and  disputing  below  me ;  and, 
putting  my  ear  into  the  chimney,  which  com- 
municated with  the  lower  room,  I  perfectly 
distinguished  these  exact  words  of  the  hus- 
band:  "Well,  well,  let  us  see — mmt  we  kill 
them  both?"  To  which  the  wife  replied, 
"  Yes  !  "  and  I  heard  no  more. 

How  should  I  tell  you  the  rest  ?  I  could 
scarcely  breathe ;  my  whole  body  was  cold  as 
marble ;  had  you  seen  me  you  could  not  have 
told  whether  I  was  dead  or  alive.  Even  now 
the  thought  of  my  condition  is  enough.  We 
two  were  almost  without  arms ;  against  us, 
were  twelve  or  fifteen  persons  who  had  plenty 
of  weapons.  And  then  my  comrade  was  over- 
whelmed with  sleep.  To  call  him  up,  to 
make  a  noise,  was  more  than  I  dared  ;  to  es- 
cape alone  was  an  impossibility.  The  window 
was  not  very  high ;  but  under  it  were  two 
great  dogs,  howling  like  wolves.  Imagine,  if 
you  can,  the  distress  I  was  in.  At  the  end 
of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  which  seemed  to  be 
an  age,  I  heard  some  one  on  the  staircase, 
and  through  the  chink  of  the  door,  1  saw  the 


PARALLEL  BETWEEN  WILLIAM  PENN  AND  JOHN  LOCKE. 


G3 


old  man  with  a  lamp  in  one  hand,  and  one  of 
his  great  knives  in  the  other. 

The  crisis  was  now  come.  He  mounted — 
hi i  wife  followed  him  ;  I  was  behind  the  door. 
He  opened  it ;  but  before  he  entered  he  put 
down  the  lamp,  which  his  wife  took  up,  and 
coming  in,  with  his  feet  naked,  she  being  be- 
hind him,  said  in  a  smothered  voice,  hiding 
the  light  partially  with  her  fingers — "  Gently, 
go  gently."  On  reaching  the  ladder  he 
mounted,  with  his  knife  between  his  teeth, 
and  going  to  the  head  of  the  bed  where  that 
poor  young  man  lay  with  his  throat  uncovered, 
with  one  hand  he  took  the  knife,  and  with  the 
other — ah,  my  cousin  ! — he  SEIZED — a  ham 
which  hung  from  the  roof, — cut  a  slice,  and 
retired  as  he  had  come  in  ! 

When  the  day  appeared,  all  the  family, 
with  a  great  noise,  came  to  arouse  us  as  we 
had  desired.  They  brought  us  plenty  to  eat ; 
they  served  us  up,  I  assure  you,  a  capital 
breakfast.  Two  chickens  formed  a  part  of  it, 
the  hostess  saying,  "  You  must  eat  one,  and 
carry  away  the  other."  When  I  saw  them, 
I  at  once  comprehended  the  meaning  of  those 
terrible  words,  "  Must  we  kill  them  both  ?  " 


PARALLEL  BETWEEN  WILLIAM  PENN 
AND  JOHN  LOCKE. 

GEORGE  BANCROFT,  bora  at  Worcester,  Mass.,  Oct.  3, 
1800,  liberally  educated  at  Harvard  and  Gottirigon.  He 
early  devoted  himself  to  historical  writing,  publishing 
the  first  volume  of  his  "  History  of  the  United  States  "  in 
1834.  This  great  work  is  characterized  (in  the  language 
of  the  historian  Prescott,)  "by  a  brilliant  and  daring 
style,  picturesque  sketches  of  character  and  incident, 
acute  rauonin^  and  compass  of  erudition."  Ten  vol- 
um3s  have  appeared,  bringing  the  work  down  to  the 
close  of  the  Revolution  in  1782,  and  two  concluding 
volumes,  closing  with  the  constitutional  period,  1700,  are 
to  be  issued  in  1881.  Mr.  Bancroft's  public  services,  as 
Secretary  of  the  Navy  in  1845-C,  minister  to  Great 
Britain  1840-49,  and  minister  to  Germany  in  18G7-74, 
have  conferred  additional  distinction  upon  himself  and 
upon  his  country.  Removing  to  Washington  upon  hij 
return  from  Europe  in  1874,  and  surrounded  with  one  of 
the  richest  collections  of  books  and  manuscripts  ever 
gathered,  Mr.  Bancroft  enjoys  a  serene  old  age,  addicted 
to  those  historical  studies  for  which  his  wide  converse 
with  books  an:l  with  men,  and  his  native  zest  for  keen 
philosophical  inquiry  have  eminently  fitted  him. 

Penn,  despairing  of  relief  in  Europe,  bent 
the  energy  of  his  mind  to  the  establishment 
of  a  free  government  in  the  New  World. 
For  that  "heavenly  end"  he  was  prepared 
by  the  severe  discipline  of  life,  and  the  love, 
without  dissimulation,  which  formed  the 
basis  of  his  character.  The  sentiment  of 


cheerful  humanity  was  irrepressibly  strong 
in  his  bosom  ;  as  with  John  Eliot  and  Roger 
Williams,  benevolence  gushed  prodigally  from 
his  ever  overflowing  heart ;  and  when,  in  his 
late  old  age,  his  intellect  was  impaired  and 
his  reason  prostrated  by  apoplexy,  his  sweet- 
ness of  disposition  rose  serenely  over  the 
clouds  of  disease.  Possessing  an  extraordi- 
nary greatness  of  mind,  vast  conceptions, 
remarkable  for  their  universality  and  precis- 
ion, and  "  surpassing  in  speculative  endow- 
ments;"  conversant  with  men,  and  books, 
and  governments,  with  various  languages, 
and  the  forms  of  political  combinations,  as 
they  existed  in  England  and  France,  in 
Holland  and  the  principalities  and  free  cities 
of  Germany,  he  yet  sought  the  source  of 
wisdom  in  his  own  soul.  Humane  by  nature 
and  by  suffering ;  familiar  with  the  royal 
family  ;  intimate  with  Sunderland  and  Syd- 
ney ;  acquainted  with  Russell,  Halifax, 
Shaftesbury,  and  Buckingham  ;  as  a  member 
of  the  Royal  Society,  the  peer  of  Newton  and 
the  great  scholars  of  his  age, — he  valued  the 
promptings  of  a  free  mind  above  the  awards 
of  the  learned,  and  reverenced  the  single- 
minded  sincerity  of  the  Nottingham  shepherd 
more  than  the  authority  of  colleges  and  the 
Avisdom  of  philosophers.  And  now,  being  in 
the  meridian  of  life,  but  a  year  older  than 
was  Locke  when,  twelve  years  before,  he  had 
framed  the  constitution  for  Carolina,  the 
Quaker  legislator  was  come  to  the  New 
World  to  lay  the  foundations  of  states.  Would 
he  imitate  the  vaunted  system  of  the  great 
philosopher?  Locke,  like  William  Penn,  was 
tolerant ;  both  loved  freedom ;  both  cherished 
truth  in  sincerity.  But  Locke  kindled  the 
torch  of  liberty  at  the  fires  of  tradition ;  Penn, 
at  the  living  light  in  the  soul.  Locke  sought 
truth  through  the  senses  and  the  outward 
world  ;  Penn  looked  inward  to  the  divine 
revelations  in  every  mind.  Locke  compared 
the  soul  to  a  sheet  of  white  paper,  just  as 
Hobbes  had  compared  it  to  a  slate,  on  which 
time  and  chance  scrawled  their  experience : 
to  Penn,  the  soul  was  an  organ  which  of 
itself  instinctively  breathes  divine  harmo- 
nies, like  those  musical  instruments  which  are 
so  curiously  and  perfectly  framed  that,  when 
once  set  in  motion,  they  of  themselves  give 
forth  all  the  melodies  designed  by  the  artist 
that  made  them.  To  Locke,  "  Conscience  is 
nothing  else  than  our  own  opinion  of  our  own 
actions;"  to  Penn,  it  is  the  image  of  God, 
and  his  oracle  in  the  soul.  Locke,  who  was 
never  a  father,  esteemed  "the  duty  of  pa- 
rents to  preserve  their  children  not  to  be 
understood  without  reward  and  punishment;" 
Penn  loved  his  children  without  a  thought 
for  the  consequences.  Locke,  who  was 


THE  YOUTH  OF  WASHINGTON. 


64 

never  married,  declares  marriage  an  affair  of 
the  senses;   Penn  reverenced  woman  as  the 
object  of  fervent,  inward  affection,  made  not 
for   lust,    but    for    love.       In    studying    the 
understanding,  Locke  begins  with  the  sources 
of  knowledge ;   Pcnn    with    an    inventory  of 
our   intellectual  treasures.      Locke  deduces 
government  from  Noah    and   Adam,    rests  it 
upon  contract,  and  announces  its  end  to  be 
the   security   of  property ;    Penn,  far   from 
going  back  to   Adam,  or   even   to    Noah,  de- 
clares that  "  there  must  be  a  people  before  a 
government,"    and,    deducing    the    right   to 
institute  government  from   man's   moral  na- 
ture, seeks  its  fundamental  rules  in  the  im- 
mutable dictates  "of  universal  reason,"  its 
end  in  freedom  and  happiness.     The  system 
of  Locke  lends  itself  to  contending  factions  of 
the  most  opposite  interests  and  purposes ;  the 
doctrine   of  Fox    and   Penn,  being   but   the 
common  creed  of  humanity,  forbids  division, 
and    insures    the    highest    moral    unity.     To 
Locke,    happiness   is    pleasure ;    things   are 
good  and  evil  only  in  reference  to  pleasure 
and  pain;  and  to  "inquire  after  the  highest 
good  is  as  absurd  as  to  dispute  whether  the 
best  relish    be   in    apples,  plums,  or    nuts;" 
Penn  esteemed  happiness  to  He  in  the  sub- 
jection  of  the  baser  instincts  to  the  instinct 
of  Deity  in  the  breast,  good  and   evil  to  be 
eternally  and  always  as  unlike  as  truth  and 
falsehood,  and  the  inquiry  after  the  highest 
good   to   involve   the   purpose   of  existence. 
Locke  says  plainly  that,  but  for  rewards  and 
punishments   beyond  the  grave,    "it   is  cer- 
tainly right  to  eat  and  drink,  and  enjoy  what 
we  delight  in  ;  "    Penn,  like  Plato  and  Fenc- 
lon,  maintained  the  doctrine  so  terrible  to 
'despots  that  God  is  to  be  loved  for  his  own 
sake,  and  virtue  to  be  practised  for  its  intrin- 
sic  loveliness.      Locke   derives   the   idea   of 
infinity    from    the    senses,    describes    it   as 
purely  negative,  and  attributes  it  to  nothing 
but    space,    duration,    and    number;    Penn 
derived  the  idea  from  the  soul,  and  ascribed 
it  to  truth  and  virtue  and  God.     Locke  de- 
clares immortality  a  matter  with  which  reason 
has   nothing  to  do,  and  that  revealed  truth 
must  be  sustained  by  outward  signs  and  visi- 
ble acts  of  power ;    Penn  saw  truth  by  its 
own  light,  and  summoned  the  soul  to  bear 
witness   to    its   own   glory.     Locke  believed 
"not  so  many  men   in  wrong  opinions  as  is 
commonly    supposed,    because    the   greatest 
part   have   no   opinions   at   all,  and   do   not 
know  what  they  contend  for ;  "  Penn  like- 
wise vindicated  the  many,  but  it  was  because 
truth  is  the  common  inheritance  of  the  race. 
Locke,   in   his   love   of  tolerance,  inveighed 
against  the  methods  of  persecution  as  "popish 
practices;"    Penn    censured    no    sect,   but 


condemned  bigotry  of  all  sorts  as  inhuman. 
Locke,  as  an  American  lawgiver,  dreaded  a 
too  numerous  democracy,  and  reserved  all 
power  to  wealth  and  the  feudal  proprietaries ; 
Penn  believed  that  God  is  in  every  conscience, 
his  light  in  every  soul;  and  therefcre  he 
built  —  such  are  his  own  words — "a  free 
colony  for  all  mankind."  This  is  the  praise 
of  William  Penn,  that,  in  an  age  which  had 
seen  popular  revolution  shipwreck  popular 
liberty  among  selfish  factions,  which  had 
seen  Hugh  Peter  and  Henry  Vane  perish  by 
the  hangman's  cord  and  the  axe;  in  an  age 
when  Sydney  nourished  the  pride  of  patriot- 
ism rather  than  the  sentiment  of  philan- 
thropy, when  Russell  stood  for  the  liberties 
of  his  order,  and  not  for  new  enfranchise- 
ments, when  Harrington  and  Shaltcsbmy 
and  Locke  thought  government  should  rest 
on  property, — Penn  did  not  despair  of  hu- 
manity, and  though  all  history  and  experi- 
ence denied  the  sovereignty  of  the  people, 
dared  to  cherish  the  coble  idea  of  mr.n's 
capacity  for  self-government.  Conscious  thr.t 
there  was  no  room  for  its  exercise  in  Ing- 
land,  the  pure  enthusiast,  like  Calvin  end 
Descartes,  a  voluntary  exile,  was  come  to  the 
banks  of  the  Delaware  to  institute  "THE 
HOLT  EXPERIMENT." 


THE  YOUTH  OF  WASHINGTON. 
At  the  very  time  of  the  congress  of  Aix-la- 
Chapellc,  the  woods  of  Virginia  sheltered  the 
youthful  George  Washington,  who  had  been 
born  by  the  side  of  the  Potomac,  beneath  tl.c 
roof  of  a  Westmoreland  planter,  and  whore 
lot  almost  from  infancy  had  been  that  cf  an 
orphan.  No  academy  had  welcomed  him  to 
its  shades,  no  college  crowned  him  with  its 
honors ;  to  read,  to  write,  to  cipher,  these 
had  been  his  degrees  in  knowledge.  And 
now,  at  sixteen  years  of  age,  in  quest  of  nn 
honest  maintenance  encountering  the  sever- 
est toil ;  cheered  onward  by  being  able  to 
write  to  a  schoolboy  friend,  "Dear  Eichard, 
a  doubloon  is  my  constant  gain  every  day,  and 
sometimes  six  pistoles;"  himself  his  own 
cook,  "having  no  spit  but  a  forked  stick,  no 
plate  but  a  large  chip  ; "  roaming  over  spurs 
of  the  Alleghanies,  and  along  the  banks  of 
the  Shenandoah  ;  alive  to  nature,  and  some- 
times "spending  the  best  of  the  day  in  ad- 
miring the  trees  and  richness  of  the  land  ;  " 
among  skin-clad  savages  with  their  scalps 
and  rattles,  or  uncouth  emigrants  "  that 
would  never  speak  English;"  rarely  sleep- 
ing in  a  bed  ;  holding  a  bearskin  a  splendid 
couch ;  glad  of  a  resting-place  for  the  night 
upon  a  little  hay,  straw,  or  fodder,  and  often 
camping  in  the  forests,  where  the  place 


CHILDE  HAROLD. 


65 


neirast  the  fire  was  a  happy  luxury, — tnis 
stripling  surveyor  in  the  woods,  with  no 
companion  but  his  unlettered  associates,  and 
no  implements  of  science  but  his  compass  and 
chiin,  contrasted  strangely  with  the  imperial 
magnificence  of  the  congress  of  Aix-la-Cha- 
pelle.  And  yet  God  had  selected,  not  Kaunitz 
nor  Newcastle,  not  a  monarch  of  the  house  of 
Hipsburg  nor  of  Hanover,  but  the  Virginia 
stripling,  to  give  an  impulse  to  human  affairs ; 
and,  as  far  as  events  can  depend  on  an  indi- 
vidual, had  placed  the  rights  and  the  destinies 
of  countless  millions  in  the  keeping  of  the 
widow's  son. 


CHILDE  HAROLD. 

CANTO  THE  SECOND. 
I. 

Come,  bine-eyed  maid  of  heaven ! — but  thou,  alas! 
Didst  never  yet  one  mortal  song  inspire — 
Goddess  of  Wisdom !  here  thy  temple  was, 
And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire, 
And  years,  that  bade  thy  worship  to  expire : 
But  worse  than  steel,  and  flamo,  and  ages  slow, 
Is  the  dread  sceptre  arid  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  glow 
That  thoughts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polish'd  breasts  be- 
gtow. 

II. 

Ancient  of  days !  august  Athena !  where, 

Where  are  thy  men  of  might?  thy  grand  in  soul  ? 

Gone — glimmering  through  the  dream  of  things  that 

were: 

First  in  the  race  that  led  to  Glory's  goal, 
They  won,  and  pass'd  away — is  this  the  whole? 
A  schoolboy's  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour ! 
The  warrior's  weapon,  and  the  sophist's  stole 
Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o'er  each  mouldering  tower, 
Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,  gray  flits  the  shade  of  power. 

III. 

Son  of  the  morning,  rise !  approach  you  here  ! 
Come — but  molest  not  yon  defenceless  urn : 
Look  on  this  spot  —a  nation's  sepulchre  ! 
Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  burn. 
Even  gods  must  yield— religions  take  their  turn. 
'Twas  Jove's— 'tis  Mahomet's — and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  with  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds ; 
Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope  is  built  on 
roods. 

IV. 

Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven — 
Is't  not  enough,  unhappy  thing  !  to  know 
Thou  art  ?    Is  this  a  boon  so  kindly  given, 
VOL.  I. 


That  being,  thou  wouldst  be  again,  and  so 
Thou  know'st  not,  reck'st  not  to  what  region, 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  future  joy  and  woe  i 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  Hies  : 
That  little  urn  saith  more  than  thousand  homilies. 

V. 

Or  burst  the  vanish'd  Hero's  lofty  mound ; 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps  : 
Ho  fell,  and  falling  nations  mourn'd  around  ; 
But  now  not  one  of  saddening  thousands  weeps, 
Nor  warlike  worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where  demi-gods  appear'd,  as  records  tell. 
Remove  yon  skull  from  out  the  scatter'd  heaps  : 
Is  that  a  temple  where  a  god  may  dwell  ? 
Why  ev'n  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shatter'd  cell '. 

VI. 

Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruin'd  wall, 
Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul : 
Yes,  this  was  once  Ambition's  airy  hall, 
The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace  of  the  Soul : 
Behold  through  each  lack-lustre,  eyeless  hole, 
The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  of  Wit, 
And  Passion's  host,  that  never  brook'd  control : 
Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ, 
People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit  ? 

VII. 

Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena's  wisest  son  ! 
"  All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known." 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  what  we  cannjt  shun  ? 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  groan 
With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  ail  their  own. 
Pursue  what  Chance  or  Fate  proclaimeth  best ; 
Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron  : 
There,  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest, 
But  Silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever  welcome  rest. 

VIII. 

Tet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deem'd,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore, 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore ; 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labors  light ! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  fear'd  to  hear  no  more  ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  reveal'd  to  sight, 
The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  who  taught  ton 
right! 

IX. 

There,  thou ! — whose  love  and  life  together  fled, 
Have  left  mo  here  to  love  and  live  in  vain — 
Twined  with  my  heart,  and  can  I  deem  thee  dead, 
When  busy  memory  flashes  on  my  brain  ? 
Well — I  will  dream  that  we  may  nwet  agaiu. 
And  woo  the  vision  to  my  vacant  breast : 
If  aught  of  young  Remembrance  then  remiv'o 
Be  as  it  may,  Futurity's  behest. 

For  me  'twere  blisa  enough  to  know  thy  spirit  blest  I 
5 


66 


MARK  TWAIN  ON  THE  WEATHER. 


X. 


Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  mossy  stone, 
The  marble  column's  yet  unshaken  base ; 
Here,  son  of  Saturn  !  was  thy  fav'rite  throne: 
Mightiest  of  many  such !    Here  let  me  trace 
The  latent  grandeur  of  thy  dwelling-place. 
It  may  not  be :  nor  ev'n  <xm  Fancy's  eye 
Restore  what  time  hath  labord  to  deface. 
Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  passing  sigh; 
Unmoved  the  Moslem  site,  the  light  Greek  carols  by. 

BYEOX. 


MARK  TWAIN  ON  THE  WEATHER. 

SAMUEL  L.  CLEMENS,  American  humorist,  widely 
known  by  the  pseudonym  of  "  Mark  Twain,"  was  born 
at  Florida,  Mo.,  November  30,  1835.  With  a  comman 
school  education,  he  became  apprentice  in  a  printing 
office  at  thirteen.  Shipping  to  New  Orleans  at  twenty, 
he  became  a  pilot  on  the  Mississippi ;  removed  to  Neva- 
da in  1861,  where  he  tried  silver  mining  and  editorship ; 
then  to  California  where  he  wrote  for  the  newspapers 
and  lectured  with  success.  In  1868  Mark  Twain  made 
a  pilgrimage  to  Europe  and  the  lloly  Land,  with  a  par- 
ty of  excursionists,  and  chronicled  his  travels  and  ob- 
servations in  "  The  Innocents  Abroad,"  his  most  success- 
ful work  of  humor,  of  which  125,000  copies  were  sold  in 
three  years.  "  Roughing  It,"  (1872)  is  a  graphic  account 
of  Pacific  coast  life  in  a  rude  frontier  society,  and  ^ 
Gilded  Age,"  (187,5)  written  jointly  by  Mr.  Clemens  and 
Mr.  Charles  D.  Warner,  is  a  social  and  political  satire 
"  Sketches  Old  and  A'eir,"  by  Mark  Twain,  and  "  A  Tramp 
Abroad,"  (1880)  are  among  the  latest  works  of  our 
'  author,  whose  peculiar  and  original  humor  make  his 
books  eagerly  sought,  both  in  England  and  America. 

At  a  New  England  dinner  In  New  York,  Mark  Twain 
delivered  the  following  speech,  amidst  frequent  inter 
ruptkms — of  laughter  and  applause. 

I  reverently  believe  that  the  Maker  wh 
made  us  all,  makes  everything  in  New  Eng 
land  but  the  weather.  I  don't  know  wh 
makes  that,  but  I  think  it  must  be  raw  ap 
prentices  in  the  Weather  Clerk's  factory,  wh( 
experiment  and  learn  how  in  New  England 
for  board  and  clothes,  and,  then  are  promote' 
to  make  weather  for  countries  that  require 
good  article  and  will  take  their  custom  else 
where  if  they  don't  get  it. 

There  is  a  sumptuous  variety  about  the  Ne 
England  weather  that  compels  the  stranger' 
admiration — and  regret.  The  weather  i 
always  doing  something  there,  always  at 
tending  strictly  to  business,  always  gettin 
up  new  designs  and  trying  them  on  the  peo 
pie  to  see  how  they  will  go.  But  it  gei 
through  more  business  in  the  spring  than  i 
any  other  seison.  In  the  spring  I  hav 
ccuLted  n  36  different  kinds  of  weather  insil 


f  four  and  twenty  hours,  .it  was  I  tlit.'  -cade 
he  fame  and  fortune  or  that  man  coat  had 
lat  marvellous  collection  ox  weather  on  ex- 
ibition  at  the  Centennial  that  so  astounded 
he  foreigners.  He  was  going  to  travel  ajl 
ver  the  world  and  get  specimens  irom  all 
limes.  I  said,  "  Don't  you  do  it;  you  viome 
o  New  England  on  a  favorable  spring  Jay." 
told  him  what  we  could  do  in  the  way  of 
tyle,  variety,  and  quantity.  Well,  he  came, 
and  he  made  his  collection  in  four  days.  As 
o  variety  ;  why,  he  confessed  he  got  hun- 
Ireds  of  kinds  of  weather  that  he  had  never 
icard  of  before.  And  as  to  quantity  ;  well, 
fter  he  had  picked  out  and  discarded  all  that 
were  blemished  in  any  way,  he  not  only  had 
weather  enough,  but  weather  to  spare; 
weather  to  hire  out ;  weather  to  sell ;  weather 
to  deposit ;  weather  to  invest ;  weather  to 
give  to  the  poor. 

The  people  of  New  England  are  by  nature 
patient  and  forbearing  ;  but  there  are  some 
hings  that  they  will  not  stand.  Every  year 
they  kill  a  lot  of  poets  for  writing  about 
Beautiful  Spring."  These  are  generally 
casual  visitors,  who  bring  their  notions  of 
spring  from  somewhere  else,  and  cannot,  of 
course,  know  how  the  natives  feel  about 
spring.  And  so,  the  first  thing  they  know, 
the  opportunity  to  inquire  how  they  feel  has 
permanently  gone  by. 

Old  Probabilities  has  a  mighty  reputation 
for  accurate  prophecy,  and  thoroughly  well 
deserves  it.  You  take  up  the  papers  and  ob- 
serve how  crisply  and  confidently  he  checks 
off  what  to-day's  weather  is  going  to  be  on 
the  Pacific,  down  South,  in  the  Middle  States, 
in  the  Wisconsin  region,  see  him  sail  along 
in  the  joy  and  pride  of  his  power  till  he  gets 
to  New  England,  and  then  see  his  tail  drop. 
He  doesn't  know  what  the  weather  is  to  be 
in  New  England.  He  can't  any  more  tell 
than  he  can  tell  how  many  Presidents  of  the 
United  States  there  are  going  to  be.  Well,  he 
mulls  over  it,  and  by  and  by  he  gets  out 
something  about  like  this  :  "  Probable  north- 
east to  southwest  winds,  varying  to  the  south- 
ward and  westward  and  eastward  and  points 
between  ;  high  and  low  barometer,  sweeping 
around  from  place  to  place ;  probable  areas 
of  rain,  snow,  hail  and  drought,  succeeded 
or  preceded  by  earthquakes,  with  thunder 
and  lightning."  Then  he  jots  down  this  post- 
script from  his  wandering  mind  to  cover  ac- 
cidents: "But  it  is  possible  that  the  pro- 
gramme may  be  wholly  changed  in  the  mean- 
time." 

Yes,  one  of  the  brightest  gems  in  a>e  New 
England  weather  is  the  dazzling  uncertainty 
of  it.  There  is  only  one  thing  certain  about 
it,  you  are  certain  there  is  going  to  be  plenty 


THE  VISION  OF  MIRZA. 


67 


of  weather.  A  perfect  grand  review  ;  but 
you  never  can  tell  which  end  of  the  proces- 
sion is  going  to  move  first.  You  fix  up  for 
the  drought ;  you  leave  your  umbrella  in  the 
house  and  sally  out  with  your  sprinkling- 
pot,  and  ten  to  one  you  get  drowned.  You 
make  up  your  mind  that  the  earthquake  is 
due ;  you  stand  from  under  and  take  hold  of 
something  to  steady  yourself,  and  the  first 
thing  you  know  you  get  struck  by  lightning. 
These  are  great  disappointments  ;  but  they 
can't  be  helped.  The  lightning  there  is  pe- 
culiar ;  it  is  so  convincing  when  it  strikes  a 
thing  it  doesn't  leave  enough  of  that  behind 
for  you  to  tell  whether — well,  you'd  think  it 
was  something  valuable,  and  a  Congressman 
had  been  there. 

And  the  thunder.  When  the  thunder  com- 
mences merely  to  tune  up,  and  scrape  and 
saw  and  key  up  the  instruments  for  the  per- 
formance, strangers  say,  "  Why,  what  awful 
thunder  you  have  here !  "  But  when  the 
baton  is  raised  and  the  real  concert  begins, 
you'll  find  that  stranger  down  in  the  cellar, 
with  his  head  in  the  ash  barrel. 

Now  as  to  the  size  of  the  weather  in  New 
England — lengthways  I  mean.  It  is  utterly 
disproportionate  to  the  size  of  that  little 
country.  Half  the  time  when  it  is  packed 
as  full  as  it  can  stick,  you  will  see  that  New 
England  weather  sticking  out  beyond  the 
edges,  and  projecting  around  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  miles  over  the  neighboring  States. 
She  can't  hold  a  tenth  part  of  her  weather. 
You  can  see  cracks  all  about,  where  she  has 
strained  herself  trying  to  do  it. 

I  could  speak  volumes  about  the  inhuman 
perversity  of  the  New  England  weather,  but 
I  will  give  but  a  single  specimen.  I  like  to 
hear  rain  on  a  tin  roof,  so  I  covered  part  of 
my  roof  with  tin,  with  an  eye  to  that  luxury. 
Well,  sir,  do  you  think  it  ever  rains  on  the 
tin  ?  No,  sir  ;  skips  it  every  time. 

Mind,  in  this  speech,  I  have  been  trying 
merely  to  do  honor  to  the  New  England 
weather;  no  language  could  do  it  justice.  But 
after  all  there  are  at  least  one  or  two  things 
about  that  weather,  (or,  if  you  please,  effects 
produced  by  it)  which  we  residents  would 
not  like  to  part  with.  If  we  had  not  our  be- 
witching autumn  foliage,  we  should  still  have 
to  credit  the  weather  with  one  feature  which 
compensates  for  all  its  bullying  vagaries — the 
ice  storm — when  a  leafless  tree  is  clothed 
with  ice  from  the  bottom  to  the  top — ice  that 
is  as  bright  and  clear  as  crystal ;  every  bough 
and  twig  is  strung  with  ice-beads,  frozen 
dew-drops,  and  the  whole  tree  sparkles,  cold 
and  white  like  the  Shah  of  Persia's  diamond 
plume.  Then  the  wind  waves  the  branches 
and  ihe  sau  comes  out  and  turns  all  those 


myriads  of  beads  and  drops  to  prisms,  that 
glow  and  hum  and  flash  with  all  manner  of 
colored  fires,  which  change  and  change  again 
with  inconceivable  rapidity,  from  blue  to  red, 
from  red  to  green,  and  green  to  gold ;  the 
tree  becomes  a  sparkling  fountain,  a  very  ex- 
plosion of  dazzling  jewels,  and  it  stands  there 
the  acme,  the  climax,  the  supremest  possibil- 
ity in  art  or  nature  of  bewildering,  intoxica- 
ting, intolerable  magnificence  !  One  cannot 
make  the  words  too  strong. 

Month  after  month  I  lay  up  hate  and 
grudge  against  the  New  England  weather ; 
but  when  the  ice  storm  comes  at  last,  I  say, 
"There,  I  forgive  you  now;  the  books  are 
square  between  us;  you  don't  owe  me  a 
cent ;  go  and  sin  no  more  ;  your  little  faults 
and  foibles  count  for  nothing ;  you  are  the 
most  enchanting  weather  in  the  world." 


THE  VISION  OF  MIRZA,  EXHIBITING  A 
PICTURE  OF  HUMAN  LIFE. 

On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  my  forefathers,  I  al- 
ways keep  holy,  after  having  washed  myself, 
and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I  as- 
cended the  high  hills  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to 
pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and 
prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing  myself  on  the 
tops  of  the  mountains,  I  fell  into  a  profound 
contemplation  on  the  vanity  of  human  life ; 
and  passing  from  one  thought  to  another, 
"Surely,"  said  I,  "man  is  but  a  shadow,  and 
life  a  dream."  Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I 
cast  my  eyes  towards  the  summit  of  a  rock 
that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  discovered 
one  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  with  a  little 
musical  instrument  in  his  hand.  As  I  looked 
upon  him,  he  applied  it  to  his  lips,  and  be- 
gan to  play  upon  it.  The  sound  of  it  was  ex- 
ceeding sweet,  and  wrought  into  a  variety  of 
tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and 
altogether  different  from  any  thing  I  had 
ever  heard  :  they  put  me  in  mind  of  those 
heavenly  airs  that,  are  played  to  the  departed 
souls  of  good  men  upon  their  first  arrival  in 
Paradise,  to  wear  out  the  impressions  of  the 
last  agonies,  and  qualify  them  for  the  plea- 
sures of  that  happy  place.  My  heart  melted 
away  in  secret  raptures. 

I  had  been  often  told,  that  the  rock  be- 
fore me  was  the  haunt  of  a  genius  ;  and  that 
several  had  been  entertained  with  that  music, 
who  had  passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  that 
the  musician  had  before  made  himself  visible. 
When  he  had  raised  my  thoughts,  by  those 
transporting  airs  which  he  played,  to  taste 
the  pleasures  of  his  conversation,  as  I  looked 


68 


THE  VISION  OF  MIRZA. 


upon  him  like  one  astonished,  he  beckoned 
to  me,  and,  by  the  waving  of  his  hand,  di- 
rected me  to  approach  the  place  where  he 
sat.  I  drew  near  with  that  reverence  which 
is  due  to  a  superior  nature  ;  and  as  my  heart 
was  entirely  subdued  by  the  captivating 
strains  I  had  heard,  I  fell  down  at  his  feet, 
and  wept.  The  genius  smiled  upon  me  with 
a  look  of  compassion  and  affability  that  fa- 
miliarized him  to  my  imagination,  and  at 
once  dispelled  all  the  fears  and  apprehensions 
with  which  I  approached  him.  He  lifted  me 
from  the  ground,  and  taking  me  by  the  hand, 

"Mirza,"  said  he,  "  I  have  heard  thee  in 

thy  soliloquies  ;  follow  me." 

He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of 
the  rock,  and  placing  me  on  the  top  of  it, 
"Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,"  said  he,  "  and  tell 
me  what  thou  seest." — "I  see,"  said  I,  "a 
huge  valley,  and  a  prodigious  tide  of  water 
rolling  through  it." — "The  valley  that  thou 
seest,"    said  he,  "is  the  vale  of  misery  ;  and 
the  tide  of  water  that  thou  seest,  is  part  of  the 
great  tide  of  eternity." — "What  is  the  rea- 
son,"  said  I,   "that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out 
of  a  thick  mist  at  one  end,  and  again  loses 
itself  in  a  thick  mist  at  the  other?  " — "What 
thou   seest,"   said  he,   "is    that    portion  of 
eternity  which  is  called  Time,  measured  out 
by  the  sun,  and  reaching  from  the  beginning 
of  the  world  to  its  consummation.     Examine 
now,"  said   he,  "this   sea,    that   is  bounded 
with  darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what 
thou  discoverest  in   it." — "I   see  a  bridge," 
said  I,  "standing  in  the  midst  of  the  tide." — 
"The  bridge  thou  seest,"  said  he,  "is  human 
life  ;  consider  it  attentively."     Upon  a  more 
leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  consisted 
of  threescore   and   ten   entire   arches,    with 
several  broken  arches,  which,  added  to  those 
that  were  entire,  made  up  the  number  about 
an  hundred.     As  I  was  counting  the  arches, 
the  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  consisted 
at  first  of  a  thousand  arches ;  but  that  a  great 
flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and  left  the  bridge 
in  the  ruinous  condition   I   now   beheld   it. 
"But  tell  me  further,"  said  he,  "what  thou 
discoverest  on  it." — "I    see    multitudes  of 
people  passing  over  it,"  said  I,  "  and  a  black 
cloud  hanging  on  each  end  of  it."    As  I  looked 
more  attentively,  I  saw  several  of  the  passen- 
gers dropping  through  the  bridge  into  the  great 
tide  that  flowed  underneath  it ;  and  upon  far- 
ther examination,  perceived  there  were  innu- 
merable trap-doors  that  lay  concealed  in  the 
bridge,  which  the  passengers  no  sooner  tro(3 
upon,   but  they  fell  through  them  into  the 
tide,    and   immediately   disappeared.     These 
hidden  pit-falls  were  set  very  thick   at   the 
entrance  of  the  bridge,    so   that   throngs   o 
people  no  sooner  broke  through  the  cloud 


but  many  of  them  fell  into  them.  They  grew 
hinner  towards  the  middle,  but  multiplied 
ind  lay  closer  together  towards  the  end  of 
he  arches  that  were  entire. 

There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their 
number  was  very  small,  that  continued  a 
cind  of  hobbling  march  on  the  broken  arches, 
>ut  fell  through  one  after  another,  being 
quite  tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of 
this  wonderful  structure,  and  the  great  va- 
riety of  objects  which  it  presented.  My 
icart  was  filled  with  a  deep  melancholy,  to 
see  several  dropping  unexpectedly  in  the 
midst  of  mirth  and  jollity,  and  catching  at 
iverything  that  stood  by  them,  to  save  them- 
selves. Some  were  looking  up  towards  the 
icavens  in  a  thoughtful  posture,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  a  speculation,  stumbled  and  fell  out 
of  sight.  Multitudes  were  very  busy  in  the 
pursuit  of  bubbles,  that  glittered  in  their 
iyes,  and  danced  before  them ;  but  often, 
when  they  thought  themselves  within  the 
reach  of  them,  their  footing  failed  and  down 
they  sunk.  In  this  confusion  of  objects,  I 
observed  some  with  scimitars  in  their  hands, 
and  others  with  urinals,  who  ran  to  and  fro 
upon  the  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on 
trap  doors  which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their 
way,  and  which  they  might  have  escaped  had 
they  not  been  thus  forced  upon  them. 

The  genius  seeing  me  indulge  myself  in 
this  melancholy  prospect,  told  me  I  had  dwelt 
long  enough  upon  it :  "Take  thine  eyes  off 
the  bridge,"  said  he,  "  and  tell  me  if  thou 
seest  anything  thou  dost  not  comprehend." 
Upon  looking  up, — "What  mean."  said  I, 
"those  great  flights  of  birds  that  are  perpetu- 
ally hovering  about  the  bridge,  and  settling 
upon  it  from  time  to  time  ?  I  see  vultures, 
harpies,  ravens,  cormorants,  and  among  many 
other  feathered  creatures,  several  little  wing- 
ed boys,  that  perch  in  great  numbers  upon 
the  middle  arches." — "These,"  said  the  ge- 
nius, "are  envy,  avarice,  superstition,  de- 
spair, love,  with  the  like  cares  and  passions 
that  infest  human  life." 

I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh  :  "  Alas,"  said  I, 
"  man  was  made  in  vain  !  how  is  he  given 
away  to  misery  and  mortality !  tortured  in 
life,  and  swallowed  up  in  death !  "  The  genius 
being  moved  with  compassion  towards  me, 
bid  me  quit  so  uncomfortable  a  prospect. 
"  Look  no  more,"  said  he,  "on  man  in  the 
first  stage  of  his  existence,  in  his  setting  out 
for  eternity  ;  but  cast  thine  eye  on  that  thick 
mist  into  which  the  tide  bears  the  several 
generations  of  mortals  that  fall  into  it."  I 
directed  my  sight  as  I  was  ordered,  and 
(whether  or  no  the  good  genius  strengthened 
it  with  any  supernatural  force,  or  dissipated 


WILL  WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


69 


part  of  the  mist  that  was  before  too  thick  for 
the  eye  to  penetrate)  I  saw  the  valley  open- 
ing at  the  farther  end,  and  spreading  forth 
into  an  immense  ocean,  that  had  a  huge  rock 
of  adamant  running  through  the  midst  of  it 
and  dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.  The 
clouds  still  rested  on  one  half  of  it,  inso- 
much that  I  could  discover  nothing  in  it : 
but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean, 
planted  w:iii  innumerable  islands,  that  were 
covered  with  fruits  and  flowers,  and  interwo- 
ven with  a  thousand  little  shining  seas  that 
ran  among  them.  I  could  see  persons  dress- 
ed in  glorious  habits,  with  garlands  upon 
their  heads,  passing  among  the  trees, 
lying  down  by  the  sides  of  fountains,  or  rest- 
ing on  beds  of  flowers  ;  and  could  hear  a 
confused  harmony  of  singing  birds,  falling 
waters,  human  voices,  and  musical  instru- 
ments. Gladness  grew  in  me  at  the  discov- 
ery of  so  delightful  a  scene.  I  wished  for 
the  wings  of  an  eagle,  that  I  might  fly  away 
to  those  happy  seats ;  but  the  genius  told 
me  there  was  no  passage  to  them,  except 
through  the  gates  of  death  that  I  saw  open- 
ing every  moment  upon  the  bridge.  "The is- 
lands," said  he,  "  that  lie  so  fresh,  and  green 
before  thee,  and  with  which  the  whole  face 
of  the  ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as  thou 
canst  see,  are  more  in  number  than  the  sands 
on  the  sea-shore  ;  there  are  myriads  of  is- 
lands behind  those  which  thou  here  discov- 
erest,  reaching  further  than  even  thine  eye,  or 
even  thine  imagination,  can  extend  itself. 
These  are  the  mansions  of  good  men  after 
death,  who,  according  to  the  degree  and 
kinds  of  virtue  in  which  they  excelled,  are 
distributed  among  these  several  islands, 
which  abound  with  pleasures  of  different 
kinds  and  degrees,  suitable  to  the  relishes 
and  perfections  of  those  who  are  settled  in 
them ;  every  island  is  a  paradise  accommo- 
dated to  its  respective  inhabitants.  Are  not 
these,  0  Mirza,  habitations  worth  contending 
for  ?  Does  life  appear  miserable,  that  gives 
thee  opportunities  of  earning  such  a  reward  ? 
Is  death  to  be  feared,  that  will  convey  thee  to 
ao  happy  an  existence  ?  Think  not  man  was 
made  in  vain,  who  has  such  an  eternity  re- 
served for  him."  I  gazed  with  inexpressible 
pleasure  on  these  happy  islands.  At  length, 
said  I , — ' '  Shew  me  no w ,  I  beseech  thee,  the  se- 
crets that  lie  bid  under  those  dark  clouds, 
which  cover  the  ocean  on  the  other  side  of 
the  rock  of  adamant."  The  genius  making 
me  no  answer,  i  turned  about  to  address  my- 
self to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he 
had  leit  me :  1  then  turned  again  to  the  vis- 
ion which  I  naa  oeen  so  long  contemplating  ; 
but  instead  of  tne  rolling  tide,  the  arched 
bridge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing 


but  the  long  hollow  valley  of  Bagdat,  with 
oxen,  sheep,  and  camels,  grazing  upon  the 
sides  of  it. — The  Spectator. 

JOSEPH  ADDISOX. 


WILL  WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL 
MONOLOGUE. 

MADE  AT  THE   COCK. 

0  plump  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 
To  which  I  most  resort, 

How  goes  the  time  ?     'Tis  five  o'clock. 

Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port : 
But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 

You  set  before  chance-comers, 
But  such  whose  father-grapo  grew  fat 

On  Lusitauian  summers. 

No  vain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

But  may  slie  still  bo  kind, 
And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 

Her  inlluenco  on  the  mimi, 
To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes, 

Ere  they  be  half-forgotten ; 
Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times, 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 

1  pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 
Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 

And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lips, 

These  favor'd  lips  of  mine  ; 
Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 

New  lifeblood  warm  the  bosom, 
And  barren  commonplaces  break 

In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

I  pledge  her  silent  at  the  board ; 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 
And  touch  upon  the  master-chord 

Of  all  I  felt  and  feel. 
Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans. 

And  phantom  hopes  assemble  ; 
And  that  child's  heart  within  the  man's 

Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 

Thro'  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns, 

By  many  pleasant  ways, 
Against  its  fountain  upward  rurui 

The  current  of  my  days : 
I  kiss  the  lips  I  once  have  kiss'd  ; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer ; 
And  softly,  thro'  a  vinous  misl, 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 


70 


WILL  WATERPROOFS  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


I  grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 

Unboding  critic-pen, 
Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 

Which  vexes  public  men, 
Who  hold  their  hands  to  all,  and  cry 

For  that  which  all  deny  them — 
Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dry, 

And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho'  all  the  world  forsake, 

Tho'  fortune  clip  my  wing.-), 
\  '*i!l  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 

Half-views  of  men  and  tilings. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  bl.xxi ; 

There  must  be  stormy  weather; 
But  for  some  true  result  of  good 

All  parties  work  together.   - 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes ; 

If  old  things,  there  are  new  ; 
Ten  thousand  broken  lights  anJ  shapes, 

Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 
Let  raffs  be  rife  in  prose  an  1  rhyme, 

Wo  lack  not  rhymes  and  raaons, 
As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 

We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid ; 

With  fair  horizons  bound : 
This  whole  wide  earth  of  lig'at  and  shade 

Comes  out,  a  perfect  round. 
High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And,  set  in  Heaven's  third  story, 
I  look  at  all  tilings  as  they  are, 

But  thro'  a  kind  of  glory.  / 

Head-waiter,  honor'd  by  the  guest 

Half-mused,  or  reeling  ripe, 
The  pint,  you  brought  mo,  was  the  best 

That  ever  came  from  pipe. 
But  tho'  the  port  surpasses  praise, 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiffer. 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place? 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ? 

For  since  I  came  to  live  and  learn, 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 

This  wheel  within  my  head, 
Which  bears  a  season'd  brain  about, 

Unsubject  to  confusion, 
Tho'  soak'd  and  saturate,  out  and  out, 

Thro'  every  convolution. 

For  I  am  of  a  numerous  house, 

With  many  kinsmen  gay, 
Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay  : 
Each  month,  a  birth-day  coming  on, 

We  drink  defying  trouble. 
Or  sometimes  two  would  moet  in  one, 

And  then  we  drank  it  double ; 


Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unk?pt, 

Had  relish  fiery-new, 
Or,  elbow-deep  in  sawdust,  slept, 

As  old  as  Waterloo ; 
Or  stow'd  (when  classic  Canning  died) 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers, 
Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 

The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is  ! 

She  answer'd  to  my  call, 
She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this. 

Is  all-in-all  to  all : 
She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat, 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker, 
Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 

Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 

The  waiter's  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout, 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 
He  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 

That  with  the  napkin  dally ; 
I  think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a  larger  egg 

Than  modern  poultry  drop, 
Stept  forward  on  a  firmer  leg, 

And  cramm'd  a  plumper  crop ; 
Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow'd  lustier  late  and  early, 
Sipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 

And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A  private  life  was  all  his  joy, 

Till  in  a  court  he  saw 
A  something-pottle-bodied  boy 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw  : 
He  stoop'd  and  clutch'd  him,  fair  and  gootf. 

Flew  over  roof  and  casement : 
His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 

Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe  and  s"ire, 

And  follow'd  with  acclaims, 
A  sign  to  many  a  staring  shire 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 
Right  down  by  smoky  Paul's  they  boio, 

Till,  where  the  streets  grow  straiten. 
One  fix'd  for  ever  at  the  door, 

And  one  became  head- waiter. 

But  whither  would  my  fancy  gp» 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a  legen'i  blow 

Among  the  chops  and  steaKs ! 
'Tis  but  a  steward  of  the  can. 

One  shade  more  plump  than  common. 
As  just  and  more  a  servinpj-'Uiin 

As  any,  born  of  woman- 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


71 


I  ranged  too  high  :  what  draws  rue  down 

Into  the  common  day  ? 
la  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown, 

Which  I  shall  have  to  pay  ? 
For,  something  duller  than  at  first, 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 
I  sit  (my  empty  glasa  reversed), 

And  thrumming  on  the  table  : 

Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife 

I  take  myself  to  task  ; 
Lest  of  the  fullness  of  my  life 

I  leave  an  empty  flask  : 
Tor  I  had  hope,  by  something  rare, 

To  prove  myself  a  poet : 
But,  while  I  plan  and  plan,  my  hair 

Is  gray  before  I  know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began, 

Till  they  bo  gathered  up  ; 
The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can, 

Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup  : 
And  others'  follies  teach  us  not, 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches ; 
And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  what 

Our  own  experience  preaches. 

Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 
But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  'tis  gone, 

'Tis  gone,  and  let  it  go. 
'Tis  gone :  a  thousand  such  have  slipt 

Away  from  my  embraces, 
And  fall'n  into  the  dusty  crypt 

Of  darken'd  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou  !  thy  betters  went 

Long  since,  and  cams  no  mare  ; 
With  peals  of  genial  clamour  sent 

From  many  a  tavern-door, 
With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits, 

From  misty  men  of  letters  ; 
The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wita  — 

Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,  when  the  Poet's  words  and  looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow  : 
Nor  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 

Had  made  him  talk  for  show  : 
But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm'd 

He  flash'd  his  random  speeches ; 
Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm'd 

His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  for  ever  with  the  past, 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth  ! 
For  should  I  prize  thee,  couldst  thou  last, 

At  half  thy  real  worth  ? 
1  hold  it  good,  good  things  should  pass  : 

With  time  I  will  not  quarrel : 
It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 

That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 


Head-waiter  of  the  choc-house  here 

To  which  I  most  resort, 
I  too  must  part :    I  hold  thee  dear 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 
For  this  thou  saalt  from  all  things  suck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter; 
And,  whepesoe'er  thou  move,  good  luck 

Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from  hence, 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots  : 
Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pe.aca 

Go  down  among  the  pots  : 
Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  our  skins, 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot ; 
Thy  care  is,  under  polish'd  tins, 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot ; 
To  come  and  go,  and  coino  again, 

He  turning  like  the  pewit, 
And  watch'd  by  silent  gentlemen, 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 

The  thick-set  hazel  dies ; 
Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 

The  corners  of  thine  eyes : 
Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 

Our  changeful  equinoxes, 
Till  mellow  Death,  like  some  late  guest, 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  Ihou  shalt  cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor, 
And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 

Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more; 
No  carved  cross-hones,  the  types  of  Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven : 
But  carved  cross-pipes,  and,  underneath, 

A  pint-pot  neatly  graven. 

TENNYSON. 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 

THE  NEW  PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 

A  Satire. 
I. 

The  magnificent  ocean-steamer,  the  Austra- 
lasian, was  bound  for  England,  on  her  home- 
ward voyage  from  Melbourne.  She  carried 
Her  Majesty's  mails  and  ninety-eight  first- 
class  passengers.  The  skies  were  cloudless  ; 
the  sea  was  smooth  as  glass.  Never  did  ves- 
sel start  under  happier  auspices.  No  sound 
of  sickness  was  to  be  heard  anywhere  ;  and 
when  dinner  time  came  there  was  not  a  sin- 
gle appetite  wanting. 


72 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


But  the  passengers  soon  discovered  they 
were  lucky  in  more  than  weather.  Dinner 
was  hardly  half  over  before  two  of  those 
present  had  begun  to  attract  general  atten- 
tion ;  and  every  one  was  wondering,  in  whis- 
pers, who  they  could  possibly  be. 

One  of  the  objects  of  this  delightful  curi- 
osity was  a  large-boned,  middle-aged  man, 
with  gleaming  spectacles,  and  lank,  untidy 
hair ;  whose  coat  fitted  him  so  ill,  and  who 
hell  his  head  so  high,  that  it  was  plain  at  a 
glance  he  was  some  great  celebrity.  The 
other  was  a  beautiful  la.ly  of  about  thirty 
years  of  age.  No  one  present  had  seen  her 
like  before.  She  ha  I  the  fairest  hair  and 
the  darkest  eyebrows,  the  largest  eyes  and 
the  smallest  waist  conceivable  ; — in  fact,  art 
and  nature  had  been  struggling  as  to  which 
should  do  the  most  for  her ; — whilst  her  bear- 
ing was  so  haughty  and  distinguished,  her 
glance  s )  tender,  and  her  dress  so  expensive 
and  so  fascinating,  that  she  seemed  at  the 
same  time  to  defy  and  to  court  attention. 

Evening  fell  on  the  ship  with  a  soft,  warm 
witchery.  The  air  grew  purple,  and  the 
waves  began  to  glitter  in  the  moonlight.  The 
passengers  gathered  in  knots  upon  the  deck. 
The  distinguished  strangers  were  still  the 
subject  of  conjecture.  At  last  the  secret  was 
discovered  by  the  vrife  of  an  old  colonial 
judge  ;  and  the  news  spread  like  wildfire. 
In  a  few  minutes  all  knew  that  there  were 
on  board  the  Australasian  no  less  personages 
than  Professor  Paul  Darnley  and  the  superb 
Virginia  St.  John. 

II. 

Miss  St.  John  had,  for  at  least  six  years, 
been  the  most  renowned  woman  in  Europe. 
In  Paris  and  St.  Petersburg,  no  less  than  in 
London,  her  name  was  equally  familiar  both 
to  princes  and  to  pot-boys  ;  the  eyes  of  all 
the  world  were  upon  her.  Yet  in  spite  of 
this  exposed  situation,  scandal  had  proved 
powerless  to  wrong  her ;  she  defied  detrac- 
tion. Her  enemies  could  but  echo  her 
friends'  praise  of  her  beauty ;  her  friends 
could  but  confirm  her  enemies'  description 
of  her  character.  Though  of  birth  that  might 
be  called  almost  humble,  she  had  been  con- 
nected with  the  heads  of  many  distinguished 
families ;  and  so  general  was  the  affection 
she  inspired,  and  so  winning  the  ways  in 
which  she  contrived  to  retain  it,  that  she 
found  herself  at  the  age  of  thirty  mistress  of 
nothing  except  a  large  fortune.  She  was  now 
converted  with  surprising  rapidity  by  a  rit- 
ualistic priest,  and  she  became  in  a  few 
months  a  model  of  piety  and  devotion.  She 
male  lace  trimmings  for  the  curate's  vest- 


ments ;  she  bowed  at  church  as  often  and 
profoundly  as  possible  ;  she  enjoyed  nothing 
so  much  as  going  to  confession  ;  she  learnt 
to  despise  the  world.  Indeed,  such  utter 
dross  did  her  riches  now  seem  to  her,  that 
despite  all  the  arguments  of  her  ghostly 
counsellor,  she  remained  convinced  that  they 
were  too  worthless  to  offer  to  the  Church,  and 
she  saw  nothing  for  it  but  to  still  keep  them 
for  herself.  The  mingled  humility  and  discre- 
tion of  this  resolve  so  won  the  heart  of  a  gift- 
ed colonial  bishop,  then  on  a  visit  to  England, 
that  having  first  assured  himself  that  Miss 
St.  John  was  sincere  in  making  it,  he  be- 
sought her  to  share  with  him  his  humble 
mitre,  and  make  him  the  happiest  prelate  in 
the  whole  Catholic  Church.  Miss  St.  John 
consented.  The  nuptials  were  celebrated 
with  the  most  elaborate  ritual,  and  after  a 
short  honeymoon  the  bishop  departed  for  his 
South  Pacific  diocese  of  the  Chasuble  Is- 
lands, to  prepare  a  home  for  his  bride,  who 
was  to  follow  him  by  the  next  steamer. 

Professor  Paul  Darnley,  in  his  own  walk 
of  life  was  even  more  renowned  than  Vir- 
ginia had  been  in  hers.  He  had  written 
three  volumes  on  the  origin  of  life,  which  he 
had  spent  seven  years  in  looking  for  in  infu- 
sions of  hay  and  cheese  ;  he  had  written  five 
Tolumes  on  the  entozoa  of  the  pig,  and  two 
volumes  of  lectures,  as  a  corollary  to  these, 
on  the  sublimity  of  human  heroism  and  the 
whole  duty  of  man.  He  was  renowned  all 
over  Europe  and  America  as  a  complete  em- 
bodiment of  enlightened  modern  thought. 
His  min  I  was  like  a  sea,  into  which  the  oth- 
er great  minds  of  the  a~e  discharged  them- 
selves, and  in  which  all  the  slight  discrepan- 
cies of  the  philosophy  of  the  present  century 
mingled  together  and  formed  one  harmonious 
whole.  He  criticized  everything ;  he  took 
nothing  on  trust,  except  the  unspeakable 
sublimity  of  the  human  race  and  its  august 
terrestrial  destinies.  And  in  his  double  ca- 
pacity of  a  seer  and  a  savant,  he  had  de- 
stroyed all  that  the  world  had  believed  in 
the  past,  and  revealed  to  it  all  that  it  is 
going  to  feel  in  the  future.  Nor  was  he  less 
successful  in  his  own  private  life.  He  mar- 
ried, at  the  age  of  forty,  an  excellent  evan- 
gelical lady,  ten  years  his  senior,  who  wore 
a  green  gown,  grey  cork-screw  curls,  and 
who  had  a  fortune  of  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds.  Orthodox  though  she  was,  Mrs. 
Darnley  was  yet  proud  beyond  measure  of 
her  husband's  world-wide  fame,  for  she  did 
but  imperfectly  understand  the  grounds  of  it. 
Indeed,  the  only  thing  that  marred  her  hap- 
piness was  the  single  tenet  of  his  that  she 
had  really  mastered.  This,  unluckily,  was 
that  he  disbelieved  in  hell.  And  so,  as  Mrs. 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


73 


Darnley  conceived  that  that  place  was  de- 
signed mainly  to  hold  those  who  doubted 
its  existence,  she  daily  talked  her  utmost, 
and  left  no  text  unturned  to  convince  her 
darling  of  his  very  dangerous  error.  These 
assiduous  arguments  soon  began  to  tell.  The 
Professor  grew  moody  and  brooding,  and  he 
at  last  suggested  to  his  medical  man  that  a 
voyage  round  the  world  unaccompanied  by 
his  wife,  was  the  prescription  most  needed 
by  his  failing  patience.  Mrs.  Darnley  at 
length  consented  with  a  fairly  good  grace. 
She  made  her  husband  pledge  himself  that 
he  would  not  be  absent  for  above  a  twelve- 
month, or  else,  she  said,  she  should  imme- 
diately come  after  him.  She  bade  him  the 
tenderest  of  adieus,  and  promised  to  pray  till 
his  return  for  his  recovery  of  a  faith  in  hell. 
The  Professor,  who  had  but  exceeded  his 
time  by  six  months,  was  now  on  board  the 
Australasian,  homeward  bound  to  his  wife. 
Virginia  was  outward  bound  to  her  husband. 

III. 

The  sensation  created  by  the  presence  of 
these  two  celebrities  was  profound  beyond 
description  ;  and  the  passengers  were  never 
weary  of  watching  the  gleaming  spectacles 
and  the  square-toed  boots  of  the  one,  and 
the  liquid  eyes  and  the  ravishing  toilettes  of 
the  other.  There  were  three  curates,  who, 
having  been  very  quick  in  making  Virginia's 
acquaintance,  soon  sang  at  nightfall  with  her  a 
beautiful  vesper  hymn.  And  so  lovely  did  the 
strains  sound,  and  so  devotional  did  Virginia 
look,  that  most  of  the  passengers  the  night 
after  joined  in  a  repetition  of  this  touching 
evening  office. 

The  Professor,  as  was  natural,  held  quite 
aloof;  and  pondered  over  a  new  species  of 
bug,  which  he  had  found  very  plentiful  in 
his  berth.  But  it  soon  occurred  to  him  that 
he  often  heard  the  name  of  God  being  uttered 
otherwise  than  in  swearing.  He  listened 
more  attentively  to  the  sounds  which  he  had 
at  first  set  down  as  negro  melodies  :  and  he 
soon  became  convinced  that  they  were  some- 
thing whose  very  existence  he  despised  him- 
self for  remembering — namely,  Christian 
hymns.  He  then  thought  of  the  three  cu- 
rates, whose  existence  he  despised  himself  for 
remembering  also.  And  the  conviction  rapid- 
ly dawned  on  him,  that  though  the  passengers 
seemed  fully  alive  to  his  fame  as  a  man  of 
science,  they  could  yet  know  very  little  of 
all  that  science  had  done  for  them  ;  and  of 
the  deith-blow  it  had  given  to  the  foul  su- 
perstitions of  the  past.  He  therefore  resolv- 
ed that  next  day  he  would  preach  them  a 
lay-sermon. 


At  the  appointed  time  the  passenger?  gath- 
ered eagerly  round  him — all  but  Virginia, 
who  retired  to  her  cabin  when  she  saw  that 
the  preacher  wore  no  surplice ;  as  she 
thought  it  would  be  a  mortal  sin  to  listen  to 
a  sermon  without  one. 

The  Professor  began  amidst  a  profound  si- 
lence. He  first  proclaimed  to  his  hearers 
the  great  primary  axiom  in  which  all  modern 
thought  roots  itself.  He  told  them  that  there 
was  but  one  order  of  things,  it  was  so  much 
neater  than  two  ;  and  if  we  would  be  certain 
of  anything  we  must  never  doubt  it.  Thus, 
since  countless  things  exist  that  the  senses 
can  take  account  of,  it  is  evident  that  noth- 
ing exists  that  the  senses  cannot  take  ac- 
count of.  The  senses  can  take  no  account 
of  God  ;  therefore  God  does  not  exist.  Men 
of  science  can  only  see  theology  in  a  ridicu- 
lous light ;  therefore  theology  has  no  side 
that  is  not  ridiculous,  He  then  told  them 
a  few  of  the  new  names  that  enlightened 
thinkers  had  applied  to  the  Christian  Deity — 
how  Professor  Tyndall  had  called  him  an 
"  atom-manufacturer,"  and  Professor  Huxley, 
a  "  pedantic  drill-sergeant."  The  passen- 
gers at  once  saw  how  demonstrably  at  va- 
riance with  fact  was  all  religion,  and  they 
laughed  with  a  sense  of  humor  that  was 
quite  new  to  them.  The  professor's  tones 
then  became  more  solemn ;  and,  having  ex- 
tinguished error,  he  proceeded  to  unveil  the 
brilliant  light  of  truth.  He  showed  them 
how,  viewed  by  modern  science,  all  existence 
is  a  chain,  with  a  gas  at  one  end,  and  no  one 
knows  what  at  the  other  ;  and  how  Humani- 
ty is  a  link  somewhere  ;  but,  holy  and  awful 
thought ! — we  can  none  of  us  tell  where. 
"  However,"  he  proceeded,  "  of  one  thing 
we  can  be  quite  certain  :  all  that  is,  is  mat- 
ter ;  the  laws  of  matter  are  eternal,  and  we 
cannot  act  or  think  without  conforming  to 
them:  and  if,"  he  said,  "we  would  be  sol- 
emn, and  high,  and  happy,  and  heroic,  and 
saintly,  we  have  but  to  strive  and  struggle  to 
do  what  we  cannot  for  an  instant  avoid  do- 
ing. Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  "as  the  sublime 
Tyndall  tells  us,  let  us  struggle  to  attain  to  a 
deeper  knowledge  of  matter,  and  a  more 
faithful  conformity  to  its  laws  ! ' ' 

The  Professor  would  have  proceeded ;  but 
the  weather  had  been  rapidly  growing  rough 
and  he  here  became  violently  sea-sick. 

"  Let  us,"  he  exclaimed  hurriedly,  "  con- 
form to  the  laws  of  matter  and  go  below." 

Nor  was  the  advice  premature.  A  storm 
arose,  exceptional  in  its  suddenness  and  its 
fury.  It  raged  for  two  days  wv^hout  ceasing. 
The  Australasian  sprang  a  leak  ;  her  steering 
gear  was  disabled ;  and  it  was  teared  she 
would  go  ashore  on  an  island  that  was  seen 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


dimly  through  the  fog  to  the  leeward.  The 
boats  were  got,  in  readiness.  A  quantity  of 
provisions  and  of  the  passengers'  baggage 
was  alreauy  slowed  in  the  cutter ;  when  the 
clouds  parted,  tne  sun  came  out  again,  and 
the  surnu  suosided  almost  as  quickly  as  it 
arose, 

IV. 

No  sooner  were  the  ship's  damages  in  a 
fair  waj  to  be  repaired  than  the  Professor 
resumed  his  sermon.  He  climbed  into  the 
cutter,  which  was  still  full  of  the  passengers' 
baggage,  and  sat  down  on  the  largest  of  Vir- 
ginia's boxes.  This  so  alarmed  Virginia  that 
she  followed  the  Professor  into  the  cutter  to 
keep  an  eye  on  her  property  ;  but  she  did 
not  forget  to  stop  her  ears  with  her  fingers, 
that  she  might  not  be  guilty  of  listening  to  an 
un-surpliced  minister. 

The  Professor  took  up  the  thread  of  his 
discourse  just  where  he  had  broken  it  off. 
Every  circumstance  favoured  him.  The  calm 
sea  was  sparkling  under  the  gentlest  breeze  ; 
all  Nature  seemed  suffused  with  gladness  ;  and 
at  two  miles'  distance  was  an  enchanting 
island,  green  with  every  kind  of  foliage,  and 
glowing  with  the  hues  of  a  thousand  flowers. 
The  Professor,  having  reminded  his  hearers 
of  what  nonsense  they  now  thought  all  the 
Christian  teachings,  went  on  to  show  them 
the  blessed  results  of  this.  Since  the  God 
that  we  once  called  all-holy  is  a  fable,  that 
Humanity  is  all-holy  must  be  a  fact.  Since 
we  shall  never  be  sublime,  and  solemn,  and 
unspeakably  happy  hereafter,  it  is  evident 
that  we  can  be  sublime,  and  solemn,  and  un- 
speakably happy  here.  "This,"  said  the 
Professor,  "  is  the  new  Gospel.  It  is  founded 
on  exact  thought.  It  is  the  gospel  of  the 
kingdom  of  man  ;  and  had  I  only  here  a 
microscope  and  a  few  chemicals,  I  could  de- 
monstrate its  eternal  truth  to  you.  There  is 
no  heaven  to  seek  for ;  there  is  no  hell  to 
shun.  We  have  nothing  to  strive  and  live  for 
except  to  be  unspeakably  happy." 

This  eloquence  was  received  with  enthu- 
siasm. The  captain  in  particular,  who  had  a 
wife  in  every  port  he  touched  at,  was  over- 
joyed at  hearing  that  there  was  no  hell ;  and 
be  sent  for  all  his  crew,  that  they  might 
learn  the  good  news  likewise.  But  soon  the 
general  gladness  was  marred  by  a  sound  of 
weeping.  Three-fourths  of  the  passengers, 
having  had  time  to  reflect  a  little,  began  ex- 
claiming that  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  were 
really  completely  miserable,  and  that  for 
various  reasons  they  could  never  be  anything 
else.  "  My  friends,"  said  the  Professor, 
quite  undaunted,  "  that  is  doubtless  com- 


pletely true.  You  are  not  happy  now  :  you 
probably  never  will  be.  But  that  is  of  little 
moment.  Only  conform  faithfully  to  the 
laws  of  matter,  and  your  children's  children 
will  be  happy  in  the  course  of  a  few  centu- 
turies ;  and  you  vri1!  like  that  far  better  than 
being  happy  yourselves.  Only  consider  the 
matter  in  this  light,  and  you  yourselves  will 
become  happy  also  ;  and  whatever  you  say 
and  whatever  you  do,  think  only  of  the  effect 
it  will  have  five  hundred  years  afterwards." 
At  these  solemn  words,  the  anxious  faces 
grew  calm.  An  awful  sense  of  the  responsi- 
bility of  each  one  of  us,  and  the  infinite  con- 
sequences of  every  human  act,  was  filling 
the  hearts  of  all ;  when  by  a  faithful  con- 
formity to  the  laws  of  matter,  the  boiler  blew 
up,  and  the  Australasian  went  down.  In  an 
instant  the  air  was  rent  with  yells  and  cries  ; 
and  all  the  Humanity  that  was  on  board  the 
vessel  was  busy,  as  the  Professor  expressed 
it,  uniting  itself  with  the  infinite  azure  of  the 
past.  Paul  and  Virginia,  however,  floated 
quietly  away  in  the  cutter,  together  with  the 
baggage  and  provisions.  Virginia  was  made 
almost  senseless  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
catastrophe ;  and  on  seeing  five  sailors  sink 
within  three  yards  of  her,  she  fainted  dead 
away.  The  Professor  begged  her  not  to  take 
it  so  much  to  heart,  as  these  were  the  very 
men  who  had  got  the  cutter  in  readiness  ; 
"and  they  are  therefore,"  he  said,  "  still 
really  alive  in  the  fact  of  our  happy  escape." 
Virginia,  however,  being  quite  insensible, 
the  Professor  turned  to  the  last  human  being 
still  to  be  seen  above  the  waters,  and  shouted 
to  him  not  to  be  afraid  of  death,  as  there  was 
certainly  no  hell,  and  that  his  life,  no  matter 
how  degraded  and  miserable,  had  been  a 
glorious  mystery,  full  of  infinite  significance. 
The  next  moment  the  struggler  was  snapped 
up  by  a  shark.  The  cutter,  meanwhile,  borne 
by  a  current,  had  been  drifting  rapidly  to- 
wards the  island.  And  the  Professor,  spread- 
ing to  the  breeze  Virginia's  beautiful  lace 
parasol,  soon  brought  it  to  the  shore  on  a 
beach  of  the  softest  sand. 


V. 


The  scene  that  met  Paul's  eyes  as  he  landed 
was  one  of  extreme  loveliness.  He  had  run 
the  boat  ashore  in  a  little  fairy  bay,  full  of 
translucent  waters,  and  fringed  with  silvery 
sands.  On  either  side  it  was  protected  by 
fantastic  rocks,  and  in  the  middle  it  opened 
inland  to  an  enchanting  valley,  where  tall 
tropical  trees  made  a  grateful  shade,  and 
where  the  ground  was  carpeted  with  the 
softest  moss  and  turf. 

Paul's  first  care  was  for  his  fair  companion. 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


75 


He  spread  a  costly  cashmere  shawl  on  the 
beich,  and  placed  her,  still  fainting,  on  this. 
In  a  few  moments  she  opened  her  eyes ;  but 
was  on  the  point  of  fainting  again  as  the 
horrors  of  the  last  half-hour  came  back  to 
her,  when  she  caught  sight  in  the  cutter  of 
the  largest  of  her  own  boxes,  and  she  began 
to  recover  herself.  Paul  begged  her  to  re- 
main quiet  while  he  Avent  to  reconnoitre. 

He  had  hardly  proceeded  twenty  yards  into 
the  valley,  when  to  his  infinite  astonishment 
he  cams  on  a  charming  cottage,  built  under 
the  shadow  of  a  broad  tree,  with  a  broad  vc- 
ranlah,  plate-glass  windows,  and  red  window- 
blinds.  His  first  thought  was  that  this  could 
be  no  desert  island  at  all,  but  some  happy 
European  settlement.  But  on  approaching 
the  cottaga,  it  proved  to  be  quite  untenanted, 
and  from  the  cobwebs  woven  across  the  door- 
way it  seemed  to  have  been  long  abandoned. 
Inside  there  was  abundance  of  luxurious  fur- 
niture ;  the  floors  were  covered  with  gorgeous 
Indian  carpets;  and  there  was  a  pantry  well 
stocked  with  plate  and  glass  and  table-linen. 
The  Professor  could  not  tell  what  to  make  of 
it,  till,  examining  the  structure  more  closely, 
he  found  it  composed  mainly  of  a  ship's  tim- 
bers. This  socmad  to  tell  its  own  tale ;  and 
he  at  once  concluded  that  he  and  Virginia 
were  not  the  first  castaways  who  had  been 
forced  to  make  the  island  for  some  time  their 
dwolling-place. 

Overjoyed  at  this  discovery,  the  Professor 
hastens  I  back  to  Virginia.  She  was  by  this 
time  quite  recovered,  and  was  kneeling  on 
the  cashmere  shawl,  with  a  rosary  in  her 
hands  designed  especially  for  the  use  of  An- 
glo-Citholics,  and  was  alternately  lifting  up 
her  eyes  in  gratitude  to  Heaven,  and  casting 
them  down  in  anguish  at  her  torn  and  crum- 
pled dress.  The  poor  Professor  was  horri- 
fied at  the  sight  of  a  human  being  in  this 
degrading  attitude  of  superstition.  But  as 
Virginia  quitted  it  with  alacrity  as  soon  as 
ever  he  told  his  news  to  her,  he  hoped  he 
might  soon  convert  her  into  a  sublime  and 
holy  Utilitarian.  The  first  thing  she  besought 
him  to  do  was  to  carry  her  biggest  box  to  this 
chirming  cottage,  that  she  might  change  her 
clothe?,  and  appear  in  something  fit  to  be 
833n  in.  The  Professor  most  obligingly  at 
once  did  as  she  asked  him ;  and  whilst  she 
wis  busy  at  her  toilette,  he  got  from  the 
cutl3r  whit  provisions  he  could,  and  pro- 
C3el3d  to  lay  the  table.  When  all  was  ready, 
Ii3  rani;  a  gong  which  he  found  suspended  in 
t'i3  loboy ;  Virginia  appeared  shortly  in  a 
bemtiful  pink  dressing-gown,  embroidered 
with  silver  flowers  ;  and  just  before  sunset, 
the  two  sit  down  to  a  really  excellent  meal. 
The  bread-tree  at  the  door  of  the  cotta-ro  con- 


tributed some  beautiful  French  rolls  ;  close 
at  hand  also  they  discovered  a  butter-tree ; 
and  the  Professor  had  produced  from  the  cut- 
ter a  variety  of  salt  and  potted  meats,  patt- 
de-foie-gras,  cakes,  preserved  fruit,  and  some 
bottles  of  fine  champagne.  This  last  helped 
much  to  raise  their  spirits.  Virginia  found 
it  very  dry,  and  exactly  suited  to  her  palate. 
She  had  but  drunk  five  glasses  of  it,  when 
her  natural  smile  returned  to  her,  though 
she  was  much  disappointed  because  Paul 
took  no  notice  of  her  dressing-gown  ;  and 
when  she  had  drunk  three  glasses  more,  she 
quietly  went  to  sleep  on  the  sofa. 

The  moon  had  by  this  time  risen  in  daz- 
zling splendour  ;  and  the  Professor  went  out 
and  lighted  a  cigar.  All  during  dinner  there 
had  been  a  feeling  of  dull  despair  in  his 
heart,  which  even  the  champagne  did  not 
dissipate.  But  now,  as  he  surveyed  in  the 
moonlight  the  wondrous  Paradise  in  which 
his  strange  fate  had  cast  him,  his  mood 
changed.  The  air  was  full  of  the  scents  of  a 
thousand  night-smelling  flowers ;  the  sea 
murmured  on  the  beach  in  soft,  voluptuous 
cadences.  The  Professor's  cigar  was  ex- 
cellent. He  now  saw  his  situation  in  a  truer 
light.  Here  was  a  bountiful  island,  where 
earth  unbidden  brought  forth  all  her  choicest 
fruits ;  and  most  of  the  luxuries  of  civiliza- 
tion had  already  been  wafted  thither.  Ex- 
istence here  seemed  to  be  purified  from  all  its 
evils.  Was  not  this  the  very  condition  of 
things  which  all  the  sublimest  and  exactest 
thinkers  of  modern  times  had  been  dreaming 
and  lecturing,  and  writing  books  about  for  a 
good  half-century  ?  Here  was  a  place  where 
Humanity  could  do  justice  to  itself,  and  real- 
ize those  glorious  destinies  which  all  exact 
thinkers  take  for  granted  must  be  in  store  for 
it.  True,  from  the  mass  of  Humanity  he  was 
completely  cut  away  ;  but  Virginia  was  his 
companion.  Holiness,  and  solemnity,  and 
unspeakably  significant  happiness,  did  not, 
he  argued,  depend  on  the  multiplication  table. 
He  and  Virginia  represented  Humanity  as 
well  as  a  million  couples.  They  were  a  com- 
plete Humanity  in  themselves,  and  Humanity 
in  a  perfectible  shape ;  and  the  very  next 
day  they  would  make  preparations  for  fulfill- 
ing their  holy  destiny,  and  being  as  solemnly 
and  unspeakably  happy  as  it  was  their  stern 
duty  to  be.  The  Professor  turned  his  eyes 
upwards  to  the  starry  heavens  ;  and  a  sense 
came  over  him  of  the  eternity  and  the  im- 
mensity of  Nature,  and  the  demonstrable  ab- 
sence of  any  intelligence  that  guided  it. 
These  reflections  naturally  brought  home  to 
him  with  more  vividness  the  stupendous  and 
boundless  importance  of  Man.  His  bosom 
swelled  violently ;  and  he  cried  aloud,  his 


76 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


eyes  still  fixed  on  the  firmament,  "  Oh,  im- 
portant All !  oh,  important  Me !'' 

When  he  came  back  to  the  cottage,  he 
found  Virginia  just  getting  off  the  sofa,  and 
preparing  to  go  off  to  bed.  She  was  too 
sleepy  even  to  say  good-night  to  him,  and 
with  evident  want  of  temper  was  tugging  at 
the  buttons  of  her  dressing-gown.  "Ah," 
slie  murmured  as  she  left  the  room,  "if  God, 
in  his  infinite  mercy,  had  only  spared  my 
maid !" 

Virginia's  evident  discontent  gave  profound 
pain  to  Paul.  "How  solemn,"  he  exclaimed, 
"for  half  Humanity  to  be  discontented!" 
But  he  was  still  more  disturbed  at  the  appeal 
to  a  chimerical  manufacturer  of  atoms  ;  and 
he  exclaimed,  in  yet  more  sorrowful  tones, 
"  How  solemn  for  half  Humanity  to  be  sunk 
lower  than  the  beasts  by  superstition  !" 

However,  he  hoped  that  these  stupendous 
evils  might,  under  the  present  favourable 
conditions,  vanish  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days'  progress ;  and  he  went  to  bed,  full  of 
august  auguries. 

VI. 

Next  morning  he  was  up  betimes  ;  and  the 
prospects  of  Humanity  looked  more  glorious 
than  ever.  He  gathered  some  of  the  finest 
pats  from  the  butter-tree,  and  some  fresh 
French  rolls  from  the  bread-tree.  He  dis- 
covered a  cow  close  at  hand,  that  allowed  him 
at  once  to  milk  it ;  and  a  little  roast  pig  ran 
up  to  him  out  of  the  underwood,  and  fawning 
on  him  with  its  trotter;;,  said,  "  Come,  eat 
me."  The  Professor  vivisected  it  before  Vir- 
ginia's door,  that  its  automatic  noise,  which 
the  vulgar  call  cries  of  pain,  might  awaken 
her  ;  and  he  then  set  it  in  a  hot  dish  on  the 
table. 

"  It  has  come  !  it  has  come!"  he  shouted, 
rapturously,  as  Virginia  entered  the  room, 
this  time  in  a  blue  silk  dressing-gown,  em- 
broidered with  flowers  of  gold. 

"  What  has  come  ?"  said  Virginia,  pet- 
tishly, for  she  was  suffering  from  a  terrible 
headache,  and  the  Professor's  loud  voice  an- 
noyed her.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  we 
are  rescued,  are  we  ?' ' 

"Yes,"  answered  Paul,  solemnly;  "we 
are  rescued  from  all  the  pains  and  imperfec- 
tions of  a  world  that  has  not  learnt  how  to 
conform  to  the  laws  of  matter,  and  is  but  im- 
perfectly acquainted  with  the  science  of  so- 
ciology. It  is  therefore  inevitable  that,  the 
evils  of  existence  being  thus  removed,  we 
shall  both  be  solemnly,  stupendously,  and 
unspeakably  happy." 

"  Nonsense  !"  said  Virginia,  snappishly, 
who  thought  the  Professor  was  joking. 


"  It  is  not  nonsense,' '  said  the  Professor. 
"  It  is  deducible  from  the  teachings  of  John 
Stuart  Mill,  of  Auguste  Comte,  of  Mr.  Fred- 
eric Harrison,  and  of  all  the  exact  thinkers 
who  have  cast  off  superstition,  and  who  adore 
Humanity." 

Virginia  meanwhile  ate  pate-de-foic-yras,  of 
which  she  was  passionately  fond  ;  and,  grow- 
ing a  little  less  sullen,  she  at  last  admitted 
that  they  were  lucky  in  having  at  least  the 
necessaries  of  life  left  to  them.  "  But  as  for 
happiness — there  is  nothing  to  do  here,  there 
is  no  church  to  go  to,  and  you  don't  seem  to 
care  a  bit  for  my  dressing-gown.  What  have 
we  got  to  make  us  happy?" 

"  Humanity,"  replied  the  Professor  eagerly, 
— "  Humanity,  that  divine  entity,  which  is 
of  course  capable  of  everything  that  is  fine 
and  invaluable,  and  is  the  object  of  inde- 
scribable emotion  to  all  exact  thinkers.  And 
what  is  Humanity  ?"  he  went  on  more  earn- 
estly, "  You  and  I  are  Humanity — you  and  I 
are  that  august  existence.  You  already  are 
all  the  world  to  me;  and  I  very  soon  shall  be 
all  the  world  to  you.  Adored  being,  it  will 
be  my  mission  and  my  glory  to  compel  you 
to  live  for  me.  And  then,  as  modern  philoso- 
phy can  demonstrate,  we  shall  both  of  us  be 
significantly  and  unspeakably  happy." 

For  a  few  moments  Virginia  merely  stared 
at  Paul.  Suddenly  she  turned  quite  pale,  her 
lips  quivered,  and  exclaiming,  "  How  dare 
you ! — and  I,  too,  the  wife  of  a  bishop  !"  she 
left  the  room  in  hysterics. 

The  Professor  could  make  nothing  of  this. 
Though  he  had  dissected  many  dead  women, 
he  knew  very  little  of  the  hearts  of  live  ones. 
A  sense  of  shyness  overpowered  him.  He 
felt  embarrassed,  he  could  not  tell  why,  at 
being  thus  left  alone  with  Virginia.  He  lit  a 
cigar,  and  went  out.  Here  was  a  to-do 
indeed,  he  thought.  How  would  progress  be 
possible  if  one  half  of  Humanity  misunder- 
stood the  other  ? 

He  was  thus  musing,  when  suddenly  a 
voice  startled  him ;  and  in  another  moment 
a  man  came  rushing  up  to  him,  with  every 
demonstration  of  joy. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  master  !  oh,  emancipator  of 
the  human  intellect !  and  is  it  indeed  you  ? 
Thank  God  ! 1  beg  pardon  for  my  un- 
speakable blasphemy — I  mean,  thank  cir- 
cumstances over  which  I  have  no  control." 

It  was  one  of  the  three  curates,  whom 
Paul  had  supposed  drowned,  but  who  now 
related  how  he  had  managed  to  swim  ashcrc, 
despite  the  extreme  length  of  his  black  cleri- 
cal coat.  "These  rags  of  superstition,"  he 
said,  "  did  their  best  to  drown  me.  But  I 
survive  in  spite  of  them,  to  covet  truth  and 
to  reject  error.  Thanks  to  your  glorious 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


77 


teaching,"  he  went  on,  looking  reverentially 
into  the  Professor's  face,  "  the  very  notion  of 
an  Almighty  Father  makes  me  laugh  con- 
sumedly,  it  is  so  absurd  and  so  immoral. 
Science,  through  your  instrumentality,  has 
opened  my  eyes.  I  am  now  an  exact  thinker.' ' 

"Do  you  believe,"  said  Paul,  "  in  solemn, 
significant,  and  unspeakably  happy  Human- 
ity?" 

"I  do,"  said  the  curate,  fervently.  "  When- 
ever I  think  of  Humanity,  I  groan  and  moan 
to  myself  out  of  sheer  solemnity.' ' 

"Then  two-thirds  of  Humanity,"  said  the 
Professor,  "  are  thoroughly  enlightened.  Pro- 
gress will  now  go  on  smoothly." 

At  this  moment  Virginia  came  out.  having 
rapidly  recovered  composure  at  the  sound  of 
a  new  man's  voice. 

"You  here — you,  too!"  exclaimed  the 
curate.  "  How  solemn,  how  significant ! 

This  is  truly  Providential 1  mean  this  has 

truly  happened  through  conformity  to  the 
laws  of  matter." 

"Well,"  said  Virginia,  "  since  we  have  a 
clergyman  amongst  us,  we  shall  perhaps  be 
able  to  get  on." 

VII. 

Things  now  took  a  better  turn.  The  Pro- 
fessor ceased  to  feel  shy ;  and  proposed,  when 
the  curate  had  finished  an  enormous  break- 
fast, that  they  should  go  down  to  the  cutter, 
and  bring  up  the  things  in  it  to  the  cottage. 
"A  few  hours'  steady  progress,"  he  said, 
"and  the  human  race  will  command  all  the 
luxuries  of  civilization — the  glorious  fruits  of 
centuries  of  onward  labour." 

The  three  spent  a  very  busy  morning  in 
examining  and  unpacking  the  luggage.  The 
Professor  found  his  favourite  cullection  of 
modern  philosophers ;  Virginia  found  a  large 
box  of  knick-  knacks,  with  which  to  adorn 
the  cottage  ;  and  there  was,  too,  an  immense 
store  of  wine  and  of  choice  provisions. 

"  It  is  rather  sad,"  sighed  Virginia,  as  she 
dived  into  a  box  of  French  chocolate-creams, 
"to  think  that  all  the  poor  people  are  drowned 
that  these  things  belonged  to." 

"  They  are  not  dead,"  said  the  Professor: 
"  they  still  live  on  this  holy  and  stupendous 
earth.  They  live  in  the  use  we  are  making 
of  all  they  had  got  together.  The  owner  of 
those  chocolate-creams  is  immortal  because 
you  are  eating  them." 

Virginia  licked  her  lips,  and  said,  "  Non- 
sense ! ' ' 

"It  is  not  nonsense,"  said  the  Professor. 
"  It  is  the  religion  of  Humanity." 

All  day  they  were  busy,  and  the  time  passed 
pleasantly  enough.  Wines,  provisions,  books, 
and  china  ornaments  were  «»\r.ed  up  to  the 


cottage  and  bestowed  in  proper  places.  Vir- 
ginia filled  the  glasses  in  the  drawing-room 
with  gorgeous  leaves  and  flowers;  and  declared 
by  the  evening,  as  she  looked  round  her,  that 
she  could  almost  fancy  herself  in  St.  John's 
Wood. 

"See,"  said  the  Professor,  "how  rapid  is 
the  progress  of  material  civilization  !  Hu- 
manity is  now  entering  on  the  fruits  of  ages. 
Before  long  it  will  be  in  a  position  to  be  un- 
speakably happy," 

Virginia  retired  to  bed  early.  The  Pro- 
fessor took  the  curate  out  with  him  to  look 
at  the  stars  ;  and  promised  to  lend  him  some 
writings  of  the  modern  philosophers,  which 
would  make  him  more  perfect  in  the  new 
view  of  things.  They  said  good-night,  mur- 
muring together  that  there  was  certainly  no 
God,  that  Humanity  was  very  important,  and 
that  everything  was  very  solemn. 

VIII. 

Next  morning  the  curate  began  studying  a 
number  of  essays  that  the  Professor  lent  him, 
all  written  by  exact  thinkers,  who  disbelieved 
in  God,  and  thought  Humanity  adorable  and 
most  important.  Virginia  lay  on  the  sofa, 
and  sighed  over  one  of  Miss  Broughton's 
novels  ;  and  it  occurred  to  the  Professor  that 
the  island  was  just  the  place  where,  if  any- 
where, the  missing  link  might  be  found. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed;  "all  is  still  pro- 
gress. Material  progress  came  to  an  end 
yesterday.  Mental  progress  has  begun  to-day. 
One-third  of  Humanity  is  cultivating  sen- 
timent ;  another  third  is  learning  to  covet 
truth.  I,  the  remaining  and  most  en- 
lightened third,  will  go  and  seek  it.  Glorious, 
solemn  Humanity  !  I  will  go  and  look  about 
for  its  arboreal  ancestor." 

Every  step  the  Professor  took  he  found  the 
island  more  beautiful.  But  he  came  back  to 
luncheon,  having  been  unsuccessful  in  his 
search.  Events  had  marched  quickly  in  his 
absence.  Virginia  was  at  the  beginning  of 
her  third  volume ;  and  the  curate  had 
skimmed  over  so  many  essays,  that  he  pro- 
fessed himself  able  to  give  a  thorough  account 
of  the  want  of  faith  that  was  in  him. 

After  luncheon  the  three  sat  together  in 
easy  chairs,  in  the  verandah,  sometimes  talk- 
ing, sometimes  falling  into  a  half-doze.  They 
all  agreed  that  they  were  wonderfully  com- 
fortable, and  the  Professor  said — 

"All  Humanity  is  now  at  rest,  and  in  utter 
peace.  It  is  just  taking  breath,  before  it  be- 
comes unspeakably  and  significantly  happy." 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  he  was  here 
startled  by  a  piteous  noise  of  crying,  and  tha 
three  found  themselves  confronted  by  an  olj 


78 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


woman,  dripping  with  sea-water,  and  with  an 
expression  on  her  face  of  the  utmost  misery. 
They  soon  recognized  her  as  one  of  the  pas- 
sengers of  the  ship.  She  told  them  how  she 
had  been  floated  ashore  on  a  spar,  and  how 
she  had  been  sustained  by  a  little  roast  pig, 
that  kindly  begged  her  to  eat  it,  having  first 
lain  in  her  bosom  to  restore  her  to  warmth. 
She  was  now  looking  for  her  son. 

"And  if  I  cannot  find  him,"  said  the  old 
womm,  "I  shall  never  smile  again.  He  has 
half  broken  my  heart,"  she  went  on,  "by  his 
wicked  ways.  But  if  I  thought  he  was  dead 
—dead  in  the  midst  of  his  sins,  it  would  be 
broken  altogether ;  for  in  that  case  he  must 
certainly  be  in  hell." 

"Old  woman,"  said  the  Professor,  very 
slowly  and  solemnly,  "  be  comforted.  I  an- 
nounce to  you  that  your  son  is  alive." 

"Oh,    bless    you,    sir,    for   that   word!' 
cried  the   old  woman.     "But  where  is  he? 
Have  you  seen  him  ?     Are  you  sure  that  he 
is  living?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  the  Professor,  "be- 
cause enlightened  thought  shows  me  that  he 
cannot  be  anything  else.  It  is  true  that  I 
saw  him  sink  for  a  third  time  in  the  sea,  and 
that  he  was  then  snapped  up  by  a  shark. 
But  he  is  as  much  alive  as  ever  in  his  posthu- 
mous activities.  He  has  made  you  wretched 
after  him  ;  and  that  is  his  future  life.  Be- 
come an  exact  thinker,  and  you  will  see  that 
this  is  so.  Old  woman,"  added  the  Professor, 
solemnly,  "you  are  your  son  in  hell." 

At  this  the  old  woman  flew  into  a  terrible 
rage. 

"In  hell,  sir!"  she  exclaimed;  "me  in 
hell! — a  poor  lone  woman  like  me!  How 
dare  you  !"  And  she  sank  back  in  a  chair 
and  fainted. 

"Alas!"  said  the  Professor,  "thus  is 
misery  again  introduced  into  the  world.  A 
fourth  part  of  Humanity  is  now  miserable." 

The  curate  answered  promptly  that  if  no 
restoratives  were  given  her,  she  would  prob- 
ably die  in  a  few  minutes.  "  And  to  let  her 
die,"  he  said,  "is  clearly  our  solemn  duty. 
It  will  be  for  the  greatest  happiness  of  the 
greatest  number." 

"No,"  said  the  Professor  ;  "  for  our  sense 
of  pity  would  then  be  wounded,  and  the  hap- 
piness of  all  of  us  would  be  marred  by  that." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  the  curate ;  "  but  exact 
thought  shows  me  that  pity  for  others  is  but 
the  imagining  of  their  misfortune  falling  on 
ourselves.  Now,  we  can  none  of  us  imagine 
ourselves  exactly  in  the  old  woman's  case ; 
therefore  it  is  quite  impossible  that  we  can 
pity  her." 

"But,"  said  the  Professor,  "such  an  act 
would  violate  our  ideas  of  justice." 


"You  are  wrong  again,"  said  the  curate; 
"for  exact  thought  shows  me  that  the  love  of 
justice  is  nothing  but  the  fear  of  suffering  in- 
justice. If  we  were  to  kill  strong  men,  we 
might  naturally  fear  that  strong  men  would 
kill  us.  But  whatever  we  do  to  fainting  old 
women,  we  cannot  expect  that  fainting  old 
women  will  do  anything  to  us  in  return." 

"Your  reasoning  cannot  be  sound,"  said 
the  Professor,  "for  it  would  lead  to  the  most 
horrible  conclusions.  I  will  solve  the  diffi- 
culty better.  I  will  make  the  old  woman 
happy,  and  therefore  fit  to  live.  Old  woman,' ' 
he  exclaimed,  "you  are  yourself  by  your  own 
unhappiness  expiating  your  son's  sins.  Do 
but  think  of  that,  and  you  will  become  un- 
speakably happy." 

Meanwhile,  however,  the  old  woman  had 
died.  When  the  Professor  discovered  this 
he  was  somewhat  shocked ;  but  at  length 
with  a  sudden  change  of  countenance,  "We 
neither  of  us  did  it,"  he  exclaimed,  "her 
death  is  no  act  of  ours.  It  is  part  of  the 
eternal  not-ourselves  that  makes  for  righteous- 
ness— righteousness,  which  is,  as  we  all 
know,  but  another  name  for  happiness. 
Let  us  adore  the  event  with  reverence." 

"Yes,"  said  the  curate,  "we  are  well  rid 
of  her.  She  was  an  immoral  old  woman  ;  for 
happiness  is  the  test  of  morality,  and  she 
was  very  unhappy." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  the  Professor, 
"  she  was  a  moral  old  woman  ;  for  she  made 
us  happy  by  dying  so  very  opportunely. 
Let  us  speak  well  of  the  dead.  Her  death 
has  been  a  holy  and  a  blessed  one.  She  has 
conformed  to  the  laws  of  matter.  Thus  is 
unhappiness  destined  to  fade  out  of  the 
world.  Quick !  let  us  tie  a  bag  of  shot  to  all 
the  sorrow  and  evil  of  Humanity,  which, 
after  all,  is  only  a  fourth  part  of  it ;  and  let 
us  sink  her  in  the  bay  close  at  hand,  that 
she  may  catch  lobsters  for  us." 

IX. 

"  At  last,"  said  the  Professor,  as  they  be- 
gan dinner  that  evening,  "  the  fulness  of 
time  has  come.  All  the  evils  of  humanity 
are  removed,  and  progress  has  come  to  an 
end  because  it  can  go  no  further.  We  have 
nothing  now  to  do  but  to  be  unspeakably  and 
significantly  happy." 

The  champagne  flowed  freely.  Our  friends 
ate  and  drank  of  the  best,  their  spirits  rose ; 
and  Virginia  admitted  that  this  was  really 
"jolly."  The  sense  of  the  word  pleased  the 
Professor,  but  its  sound  seemed  below  the 
gravity  of  the  occasion ;  so  he  begged  her  to 
say  "sublime"  instead.  "We  can  make  it 
mean,"  he  said,  "just  the  same,  but  we  pre- 
fer it  for  the  sake  of  its  associations." 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


79 


It  soon,  however,  occurred  to  him  that  eat- 
ing and  drinking  were  hardly  delights  suffi- 
cient to  justify  the  highest  state  of  human 
emotion ;  and  he  began  to  fear  he  had  been 
feeling  sublime  prematurely ;  but  in  another 
moment  he  recollects  1  he  was  an  altruist,  and 
that  the  secret  of  their  happiness  was  not  that 
any  one  of  them  was  happy,  but  that  they 
each  knew  the  others  were. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  curate,"  said  the  Profes- 
sor, "  what  I  am  enjoying  is  the  champagne 
that  you  drink,  and  what  you  are  enjoying 
is  the  champagne  that  I  drink.  This  is  al- 
truism ;  this  is  benevolence  ;  this  is  the  sub- 
lime outcome  of  enlightenod  modern  thought. 
The  pleasures  of  the  table,  in  themselves,  are 
low  and  beastly  ones  ;  but  if  we  each  of  us 
are  only  glad  because  the  others  are  enjoying 
them,  they  become  holy  and  glorious  beyond 
description." 

"  They  do,"  cried  the  curate  rapturously, 
"  indeed  they  do  !  I  will  drink  another  bot- 
tle for  your  sake.  It  is  sublime!"  he  said  as 
he  tossad  off  three  glasses.  "  It  is  signifi- 
cant !"  he  said  as  he  finished  three  more. 
"Tell  me,  my  dear,  do  I  look  significant?" 
he  added,  as  he  turned  to  Virginia,  and  sud- 
denly tried  to  crown  the  general  bliss  by 
kissing  her. 

Virginia  started  back,  looking  fire  and  fury 
at  him.  The  Professor  was  completely  as- 
tounded by  an  occurrence  so  unnatural,  and 
exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "  Morality, 
sir, — remember  morality  !  How  dare  you 
upset  that  which  Professor  Huxley  tells  us 
must  be  for  ever  strong  enough  to  hold  its 
own  ?" 

But  the  last  glass  of  champagne  had  put 
the  curate  beyond  the  reach  of  exact  thought. 
He  tumbled  under  the  tible,  and  the  Profes- 
sor carried  him  off  to  bed. 

X. 

The  Professor,  like  most  serious  thinkers, 
knew  but  little  of  that  trifle  commonly  called 
"the  world."  He  had  never  kissed  any  one 
except  his  wife ;  even  that  he  did  as  seldom 
as  possible ;  and  the  curate  lying  dead  drunk 
was  the  first  glimpse  he  had  of  what,  par 
excellence,  is  called  "life."  But  though  the 
scene  just  described  was  thus  a  terrible  shock 
to  him,  in  one  way  it  gave  him  an  unlooked- 
for  comfort.  He  felt  that  even  yet  things 
were  not  quite  as  sublime  as  they  should  be. 
He  now  saw  the  reason.  "Of  course,"  he 
said,  "existence  cannot  be  perfect,  so  long 
as  one  third  of  Humanity  makes  a  beast  of 
itself.  A  little  more  progress  is  still  neces- 
sary." 

He  hastened  to  explain  this  next   morning 


to  Virginia,  and  begged  her  not  to  be  alarmed 
at  the  curate's  scandalous  conduct.  "  Im- 
morality," he  said,  "  is  but  a  want  cf  suc- 
cess in  attaining  our  own  happiness.  It  is 
evidently  most  immoral  for  the  curate  to  be 
kissing  you ;  and  therefore  kissing  you  would 
not  really  conduce  to  his  happiness.  I  will 
convince  him  of  this  solemn  truth  in  a  very 
few  moments.  Then  the  essential  dignity  of 
human  nature  will  become  at  once  apparent, 
and  we  shall  all  of  us  at  last  begin  to  be  un- 
speakably happy." 

The  curate,  however,  altogether  declined 
to  be  convinced.  He  maintained  stoutly  that 
to  kiss  Virginia  would  be  the  greatest  plea- 
sure that  Humanity  could  offer  him.  "And 
if  it  is  immoral  as  well  as  pleasant,"  he 
added,  "  I  should  like  it  all  the  better." 

At  this  the  Professor  gave  a  terrible  groan ; 
he  dropped  almost  fainting  into  a  chair;  he 
hid  his  face  in  his  hands ;  and  murmured 
half-articulately,  "Then  I  can't  tell  what  to 
do!"  In  another  instant,  however,  he  re- 
covered himself;  he  fixed  a  dreadful  look  on 
the  curate,  and  said,  "  That  last  statement  of 
yours  cannot  be  true  ;  for  if  it  were,  it  would 
upset  all  my  theories.  It  is  a  fact  that  can 
be  proved  and  verified,  that  if  you  kissed  Vir- 
ginia it  would  make  you  miserable." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  curate,  rapidly 
moving  towards  her,  "your  notion  is  a  rem- 
nant of  superstition  ;  I  will  explode  it  by  a 
practical  experiment." 

The  Professor  caught  hold  of  the  curate's 
coat-tails,  and  forcibly  pulled  him  back  into 
his  seat. 

"  If  you  dare  attempt  it,"  he  said,  "  I  will 
kick  you  soundly,  and,  shocking,  immoral 
man  !  you  will  feel  miserable  enough  then." 

The  curate  was  a  terrible  coward,  and  very 
weak  as  well.  "  You  are  a  great  hulking  fel- 
low," he  said,  eyeing  the  Professor;  "  and  I 
am  of  a  singularly  delicate  build.  I  must, 
therefore,  conform  to  the  laws  of  matter,  and 
give  in."  He  said  this  in  a  very  sulky  voice; 
and,  going  out  of  the  room,  slammed  the 
door  after  him. 

A  radiant  expression  suffused  the  face  of 
the  Professor.  "  See,"  he  said  to  Virginia, 
"the  curate's  conversion  is  already  half 
accomplished.  In  a  few  hours  more  he  will 
be  rational,  he  will  be  moral,  he  will  be  sol- 
emnly and  significantly  happy." 

The  Professor  talked  like  this  to  Virginia 
the  whole  morning;  but  in  spite  of  all  his 
arguments  she  declined  to  be  comforted.  "  It 
is  all  very  well,"  she  said,  "whilst  you  are 
in  the  way.  But  as  soon  as  your  back  is 
turned,  I  know  he  will  be  at  me  again." 

"Will  you  never,"  said  Paul,  by  this  time 
a  little  irritated,  "will  you  never  listen  to 


80 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


exact  thought?  The  curate  is  now  reflect- 
ing ;  and  a  little  reflection  must  inevitably 
convince  hirn  that  he  does  not  really  care  to 
kiss  you,  and  that  it  would  give  him  very  little 
real  pleasure  to  do  so." 

"  Stuff!  "  exclaimed  Virginia,  with  a  sudden 
vigour  at  which  the  Professor  was  thunder- 
struck. "I  can  tell  you,"  she  went  on, 
"that  better  men  than  he  have  borne  kicks 
for  my  sake  ;  and  to  kiss  me  is  the  only 
tiling  that  little  man  cares  about — what  shall 
I  do?"  she  exclaimed,  bursting  into  tears. 
"  Here  is  one  of  you  insulting  me  by  trying 
to  kiss  me  ;  and  the  other  insulting  me  by 
saying  that  I  am  not  worth  being  kissed !  " 

"  Ah,  me  !  "  groaned  the  poor  Professor  in 
an  agony,  "  here  is  one  third  of  Humanity 
plunged  in  sorrow  ;  and  another  third  has 
not  yet  freed  itself  from  vice.  When,  when 
will  sublimity  begin  ?  " 

XI. 

At  dinner,  however,  things  wore  a  more 
promising  aspect.  The  curate  had  been  so 
terrified  by  the  Professor's  threats,  that  he 
hardly  dared  so  much  as  look  at  Virginia ; 
and  to  make  up  for  it,  he  drank  an  unusual 
quantity  of  champagne,  which  soon  set  him 
laughing  and  chattering  at  a  rate  that  was 
quite  extraordinary.  Virginia  seeing  herself 
thus  neglected  by  the  curate,  began  to  fear 
that,  as  Paul  said,  he  really  did  not  so  much 
care  to  kiss  her  after  all.  She  therefore,  put 
on  all  her  most  enticing  ways  ;  she  talked, 
flirted,  and  smiled  her  best,  and  made  her 
most  effective  eyes,  that  the  curate  might  see 
what  a  prize  was  for  ever  beyond  his  reach. 

Paul  thought  the  state  of  affairs  full  of 
glorious  promise.  Virginia's  tears  were  dried, 
she  had  never  looked  so  radiant  and  exquisite 
before.  The  curate  had  foregone  every  at- 
tempt to  kiss  Virginia,  and  yet  he  seemed 
happiness  itself.  The  Professor  took  the  lat- 
ter aside,  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  over,  to 
congratulate  him  on  the  holy  state  to  which 
exact  thought  had  conducted  him.  "  You 
see,"  he  said,  "  what  a  natural  growth  the 
loftiest  morality  is.  Virginia  doesn't  want 
to  be  kissed  by  you.  I  should  be  shocked  at 
your  doing  so  shocking  a  thing  as  kissing  her. 
If  you  kissed  her,  you  would  make  both  of  us 
miserable  ;  and,  as  a  necessary  consequence, 
you  would  be  in  an  agony  likewise  ;  in  addi- 
tion to  which,  I  should  inevitably  kick  you." 

"  But,"  said  the  curate,  "  suppose  I  kissed 
Virginia  on  the  sly, — I  merely  put  this  as  an 
hypothesis,  remember, — and  that  in  a  little 
while  she  liked  it,  what  then?  She  and  I 
would  both  be  happy ;  and  you  ought  to  be 
happy  too,  because  we  were." 


"Idiot!"  said  the  Professor.  "Virginia 
is  another  man's  wife.  Nobody  really  hkes 
kissing  another  man's  wife;  nor  do  wives 
ever  like  kissing  anyone  except  their  hus- 
bands. What  they  really  like  is  what  Profes- 
sor Huxley  calls  '  the  undefined  but  bright 
ideal  of  the  highest  good,'  which,  as  he  says, 
exact  thought  shows  us  is  the  true  end  of  ex- 
istence. But,  pooh  !  what  is  the  use  of  all 
this  talking?  You  know  which  way  your 
higher  nature  calls  you  ;  and,  of  course,  un- 
less men  believe  in  God,  they  cannot  help 
obeying  their  higher  nature." 

"  I,"  said  the  curate,  "think  the  belief  in 
God  a  degrading  superstition  ;  I  think  every 
one  an  imbecile  who  believes  a  miracle  possi- 
ble. And  yet  I  do  not  care  two  straws  about 
the  highest  good.  What  you  call  my  lower  na- 
ture is  far  the  strongest ;  I  mean  to  follow  it 
to  the  best  of  my  ability  ;  and  I  prefer  call- 
ing it  my  higher,  for  the  sake  of  the  associa- 
tions." 

This  plunged  the  Professor  in  deeper  grief 
than  ever.  He  knew  not  what  to  do.  He 
paced  up  and  down  the  verandah,  or  about 
the  rooms,  and  moaned  and  groaned  as  if  he 
had  a  violent  toothache.  Virginia  and  the 
curate  asked  what  was  amiss  with  him.  "  I 
am  agonizing,"  he  said,  "for  the  sake  of 
holy,  solemn,  unspeakably  dignified  Hu- 
manity." 

The  curate,  seeing  the  Professor  thus  de- 
jected, by  degrees  took  heart  again ;  and  as 
Virginia  still  continued  her  fascinating  behav- 
iour to  him,  he  resolved  to  try  and  prove  to  her 
that,  the  test  of  morality  being  happiness, 
the  most  moral  thing  she  could  do  would  be  to 
allow  him  to  kiss  her.  No  sooner  had  he  began 
to  propound  these  views,  than  the  Professor 
gave  over  his  groaning,  seized  the  curate  by 
the  collar,  and  dragged  him  out  of  the  room 
with  a  roughness  that  nearly  throttled  him. 

"  I  was  but  propounding  a  theory — an 
opinion,"  gasped  the  curate.  "  Surely  thought 
is  free.  You  will  not  persecute  me  for  my 
opinions  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  for  your  opinions,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, "but  for  the  horrrible  effect  they 
might  have.  We  can  only  tolerate  opinions 
that  have  no  possible  consequence.  You  may 
promulgate  any  of  those  as  much  as  you  like ; 
because  to  do  that  would  be  a  self-regarding 
action." 

XII. 

"Well,"  said  the  curate,  "if  I  may  not 
kiss  Virginia,  I  will  drink  brandy  instead. 
That  will  make  me  happy  enough  ;  and  then 
we  shall  all  be  radiant." 

He  soon  put  his  resolve  into  practice.  He 
got  a  bottle  of  brandy,  he  sat  himself  down 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


81 


under  a  palm-tree,  and  told  the  Professor  he 
was  going  to  make  an  afternoon  of  it. 

"Foolish  man!"  said  the  Professor;  "I 
was  never  drunk  myself,  it  is  true ;  but  I 
know  that  to  get  drunk  makes  one's  head 
ache  horribly.  To  get  drunk  is,  therefore, 
horribly  immoral ;  and  therefore  I  cannot 
permit  it." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  curate  ;  "itisaself- 
regarding  action.  Nobody's  head  will  ache 
but  mine ;  so  that  is  my  own  lookout.  I  have 
been  expelled  from  school,  from  college,  and 
from  my  lirst  curacy  for  drinking.  So  I 
know  well  enough  the  balance  of  pains  and 
pleasures." 

Here  he  pulled  out  his  brandy  bottle,  and 
applied  his  lips  to  it. 

"Oh,  Humanity!"  he  exclaimed,  "how 
solemn  this  brandy  tastes  !" 

Matters  went  on  like  this  for  several  days. 
The  curate  was  too  much  frightened  to  again 
approach  Virginia.  Virginia  at  last  became 
convinced  that  he  did  not  care  about  kissing 
her.  Her  vanity  was  wounded,  and  she  be- 
came sullen ;  and  this  made  the  Professor 
sullen  also.  In  fact,  two-thirds  of  Humanity 
were  overcast  with  gloom.  The  only  happy 
section  of  it  was  the  curate,  who  alternately 
smoked  and  drank  all  day  long. 

"  The  nasty  little  beast !  "  said  Virginia  to 
the  Professor ;  "he  is  nearly  always  drunk. 
I  am  beginning  quite  to  like  you,  Paul,  by 
comparison  with  him.  Let  us  turn  him  out, 
and  not  let  him  live  in  the  cottage." 

"  No,"  said  the  Professor  :  "  for  he  is  one 
third  of  Humanity.  You  do  not  properly 
appreciate  the  solidarity  of  mankind.  His 
existence,  however,  I  admit  is  a  great  diffi- 
culty." 

One  day  at  dinner,  however,  Paul  came 
in  radiant. 

"Oh  holy,  oh  happy  event!"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  all  will  go  right  at  last." 

Virginia  inquired  anxiously  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  Paul  informed  her  that  the  curate, 
who  had  got  more  drunk  than  usual  that 
afternoon,  had  fallen  over  a  cliff,  and  been 
dashed  to  pieces. 

"What  event,"  he  asked,  "could  be  more 
charming — more  unspeakably  holy  ?  It  bears 
about  it  every  mark  of  sanctity.  It  is  for 
the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  num- 
ber." "Come,"  he  continued,  "  let  us  begin 
our  love-feast.  Let  us  each  seek  the  happi- 
ness of  the  other.  Let  us  instantly  be  sub- 
lime and  happy." 

XIII. 

"Let   us   prepare    ourselves,"     said    Paul 
solemnly,  as  they  sat  down  to  dinner,  "for 
VOL.  I. 


realizing  to  the  full  the  essential  dignity  of 
Humanity — that  grand  etre,  which  has  come, 
in  the  course  of  progress,  to  consist  of  you 
and  me.  Every  condition  of  happiness  that 
modern  thinkers  have  dreamed  of  is  now  ful- 
filled. We  have  but  to  seek  each  the  happi- 
ness of  the  other,  and  we  shall  both  be  in  a 
solemn,  a  significant,  and  unspeakable  state 
of  rapture.  See,  here  is  an  exquisite  leg  of 
mutton.  I,"  said  Paul,  Avho  liked  the  fat 
best,  "  will  give  up  all  the  fat  to  you." 

"And  I,"  said  Virginia  resignedly,  "will 
give  up  all  the  lean  to  you." 

A  few  mouthfuls  made  Virginia  feel  sick. 
"  I  confess,"  said  she,  "I  can't  get  on  with 
this  fat." 

"I  confess,"  the  Professor  answered,  "I 
don't  exactly  like  this  lean." 

"Then  let  us,"  said  Virginia,  "be  like 
Jack  Sprat  and  his  wife." 

"No,"  said  the  Professor,  meditatively, 
"  that  is  quite  inadmissible.  For  in  that  case 
we  should  be  egoistic  hedonists.  However, 
for  to-day  it  shall  be  as  you  say.  I  will  think 
of  something  better  to-morrow." 

Next  day  he  and  Virginia  had  a  chicken 
apiece;  only  Virginia's  was  put  before  Paul, 
and  Paul's  before  Virginia;  and  they  each 
walked  round  the  table  to  supply  each  other 
with  the  slightest  necessaries. 

"Ah!"  cried  Paul,  "this  is  altruism  in- 
deed. I  think  already  I  can  feel  the  sublim- 
ity beginning." 

Virginia  liked  this  rather  better.  But 
soon  she  committed  the  sin  of  taking  for  her- 
self the  liver  of  Paul's  chicken.  As  soon  as 
she  had  eaten  the  whole  of  it  her  conscience 
began  to  smite  her.  She  confessed  her  sin  to 
Paul,  and  inquired,  with  some  anxiety,  if  he 
thought  she  would  go  to  hell  for  it.  "  Meta- 
phorically," said  Paul,  "you  have  already 
done  so.  You  are  punished  by  the  loss  of  the 
pleasure  you  would  have  had  in  giving  that 
liver  to  me,  and  also  by  your  knowledge  of 
my  knowledge  of  your  folly  in  foregoing  the 
pleasure." 

Virginia  was  much  relieved  by  this  answer ; 
she  at  once  took  several  more  of  the  Profes- 
sor's choicest  bits,  and  was  happy  in  the 
thought  that  her  sins  were  expiated  in  the 
very  act  of  their  commission,  by  the  latent 
pain  she  felt  persuaded  they  were  attended 
by.  Feeling  that  this  was  sufficient,  she  took 
care  not  to  add  Paul's  disapproval  to  her 
punishment,  she  never  told  him  again. 

For  a  short  time  this  practice  of  altruism 
seemed  to  Virginia  to  have  many  advantages. 
But  thougli  the  Professor  was  always  ex- 
claiming, "  How  significant  is  human  life  by 
the  very  nature  of  its  constitution  !  "  she 
very  soon  found  it  a  trifle  dull.  Luckily, 
6 


82 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


however,  she  hit  upon  a  new  method  of  exer- 
cising morality,  and,  as  the  Professor  fully 
admitted,  of  giving  it  a  yet  more  solemn  sig- 
nificance. 

The  Professor  having  by  some  accident  lost 
his  razors,  his  moustaches  had  begun  to  grow 
profusely  ;  and  Virginia  had  watched  them 
with  a  deep,  but  half-conscious  admiration. 
At  last,  in  a  happy  moment,  she  exclaimed, 
"Oh,  Paul!  do  let  me  wax  the  ends  for 
you."  Paul  at  first  giggled,  blushed,  and 
protested,  but  as  Virginia  assured  him  it 
would  make  her  happy,  he  consented. 
"Then,"  she  said,  "you  will  know  that  I 
am  happy,  and  that  in  return  will  make  you 
happy  also.  Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed  when  the 
operation  was  over,  "do  go  and  examine 
yourself  in  the  glass.  I  declare  you  look 
exactly  like  Jack  Barley — Barley  Sugar,  as 
we  used  to  call  him — of  the  Blues." 

Virginia  smiled ;  suddenly  she  blushed  ; 
the  Professor  blushed  also.  To  cover  the 
blushes  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  do  his 
hair.  "  It  will  make  me  so  much  happier, 
Paul,"  she  said.  The  Professor  again  assent- 
ed, that  he  might  make  Virginia  happy,  and 
that  she  might  be  happy  in  knowing  that  he 
was  happy  in  promoting  her  happiness.  At 
last  the  Professor,  shy  and  awkward  as  he 
was,  was  emboldened  to  offer  to  do  Virginia's 
hair  in  return.  She  allowed  him  to  arrange 
her  fringe,  and  as  she  found  he  did  no  great 
harm  to  it,  she  let  him  repeat  the  operation 
as  often  as  he  liked. 

A  week  thus  passed,  full,  as  the  Professor 
paid,  of  infinite  solemnity.  "  I  admit,  Paul," 
sighed  Virginia,  "  that  this  altruism,  as  you 
call  it,  is  very  touching.  I  like  it  very  much. 
But,"  she  added,  sinking  her  voice  to  a  whis- 
per, "  are  you  quite  sure,  Paul,  that  it  is 
perfectly  moral !" 

"Moral!"  echoed  the  Professor,  "  moral ! 
Why  exact  thought  shows  us  that  it  is  the 
very  essence  of  all  morality  !  " 

XIV. 

Matters  now  went  on  charmingly.  All  ex- 
istence seemed  to  take  a  richer  colouring, 
and  there  was  something,  Paul  said,  which, 
in  Professor  Tyndall's  words,  "gave  fulness 
and  tone  to  it,  but  which  he  could  neither 
analyze  nor  comprehend."  But  at  last  a 
change  came.  One  morning,  whilst  Virginia 
was  arranging  Paul's  moustaches,  she  was 
frightened  almost  into  a  fit  by  a  sudden  ap- 
parition at  the  window.  It  was  a  hideous 
hairy  figure,  perfectly  naked  but  for  a  band 
of  silver  which  it  wore  round  its  neck.  For 
A  moment  it  did  nothing  but  grin  and  stare ; 
then  it  flung  into  Virginia's  lap  a  filthy  piece 


of  carrion,  and  in  an  instant  it  had  bounded 
away  with  an  almost  miraculous  activity. 

Virginia  screamed  with  disgust  and  terror, 
and  clung  to  Paul's  knees  for  protection.  He 
seemed  unmoved  and  preoccupied.  All  at 
once,  to  her  intense  surprise,  she  saw  his 
face  light  up  with  an  expression  of  trium- 
phant eagerness.  "The  missing  link!"  he 
exclaimed,  "  the  missing  link  at  last !  Thank 

God 1  beg   pardon   for  my   unspeakable 

blasphemy — I  mean,  thank  circumstances 
over  which  I  have  no  control.  I  must  this 
instant  go  out  and  hunt  for  it.  Give  me 
some  provisions  in  a  knapsack,  for  I  will  not 
come  back  till  I  have  caught  it." 

This  was  a  fearful  blow  to  Virginia.  She 
fell  at  Paul's  feet  weeping,  and  besought  him 
in  piteous  accents  that  he  would  not  thus 
abandon  her. 

' '  I  must, ' '  said  the  Professor,  solemnly ;  ' '  for 
I  am  going  in  pursuit  of  truth.  To  arrive  at 
Truth  is  man's  perfect  and  most  rapturous 
happiness.  You  must  surely  know  that,  even 
if  I  have  forgotten  to  tell  it  to  you.  To  pursue 
truth — holy  truth  for  holy  truth's  sake — is  a 
more  solemn  pleasure  than  even  frizzling 
your  hair." 

"Oh,"  cried  Virginia,  hysterically,  "I 
don't  care  two  straws  for  truth.  What  on 
earth  is  the  good  of  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  its  own  end,"  said  the  Professor. 
"It  is  its  own  exceeding  great  reward.  I 
must  be  off  in  search  of  it.  Good-bye  for 
the  present.  Seek  truth  on  your  own  ac- 
count, and  be  unspeakably  happy  also,  be- 
cause you  know  that  I  am  seeking  it." 

The  Professor  remained  away  for  three 
days.  For  the  first  two  of  them  Virginia 
was  inconsolable.  She  wandered  about 
mournfully  with  her  head  dejected.  She 
very  often  sighed  ;  she  very  often  uttered  the 
name  of  Paul.  At  last  she  surprised  herself 
by  exclaiming  aloud  to  the  irresponsible  soli- 
tude, "  Oh,  Paul,  until  you  were  gone,  I 
never  knew  how  passionately  I  loved  you  !  " 
No  sooner  were  those  words  out  of  her  mouth 
than  she  stood  still,  horror-stricken.  "  Alas !" 
she  cried,  "  and  have  I  really  come  to  this  1 
I  am  in  a  state  of  deadly  sin,  and  there  is  no 
priest  here  to  confess  to  !  I  must  conquer 
my  forbidden  love  as  best  I  may.  But,  ah 
me,  what  a  guilty  thing  I  am  !  " 

As  she  uttered  these  words,her  eyes  fell  on 
a  tin  box  of  the  Professor's  marked  "  Pri- 
vate," which  he  always  kept  carefully  locked 
and  which  had  before  now  excited  her  curi- 
osity. Suddenly  she  became  conscious  of  a 
new  impulse.  "I  will  pursue  truth  !"  she 
exclaimed.  "  I  will  break  that  box  open, 
and  I  will  see  what  is  inside  it.  Ah  !  "  she 
added,  as  with  the  aid  of  the  poker  she  at 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


last  wrenched  off  the  padlock,  "Paul  may 
be  right  after  all.  There  is  more  interest  in 
the  pursuit  of  truth  than  I  thought  there 
was." 

The  box  was  full  of  papers,  letters,  and  dia- 
ries, the  greater  part  of  which  were  marked 
"  Strictly  private."  Seeing  this,  Virgin- 
ia's appetite  for  truth  became  keener  than 
ever.  She  instantly  began  her  researches. 
The  more  she  read,  the  more  eager  she  be- 
came ;  and  the  more  private  appeared  the 
nature  of  the  documents,  the  more  insatiable 
did  her  thirst  for  truth  grow.  To  her  ex- 
treme surprise,  she  gathered  that  the  Profes- 
sor had  begun  life  as  a  clergyman.  There 
were  several  photographs  of  him  in  his  sur- 
plice ;  and  a  number  of  devout  prayers  ap- 
parently composed  by  himself  for  his  own 
personal  use.  This  discovery  was  the  result 
of  her  labours. 

"  Certainly,"  she  said,  "it  is  one  of  ex- 
treme significance.  If  Paul  was  a  priest 
now.  Orders  are  indelible — at  least  in  the 
Church  of  England  I  know  they  are." 

XV. 

Paul  came  back,  to  Virginia's  extreme  re- 
lief, without  the  missing  link.  But  he  was 
still  radiant  in  spite  of  his  failure;  for  he 
had  discovered,  he  said,  a  place  where  the 
creature  had  apparently  slept,  and  he  had 
collected  in  a  card-paper  box  a  large  number 
of  its  parasites. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Virginia,  "  that  you 
have  not  found  the  missing  link :  though  as  to 
thinking  that  we  really  came  from  monkeys, 
of  course  that  is  too  absurd.  Now  if  you 
could  have  brought  me  a  nice  monkey,  I 
should  really  have  liked  that.  The  Bishop 
has  promised  that  I  shall  have  a  darling  one, 

if  I  ever  reach  him — ah  me! — if Paul," 

continued  Virginia,  in  a  very  solemn  voice, 
after  a  long  pause,  "  do  you  know  that  whilst 
you  have  been  away  I  have  been  pursuing 
truth?  I  rather  liked  it;  and  I  found  it 
very,  very  significant." 

"Oh,  joy!"  exclaimed  the  Professor.  "Oh, 
unspeakable  radiance  !  Oh  holy,  oh  essen- 
tially dignified  Humanity  !  it  will  very  soon 
be  perfect. !  Tell  me,  Virginia,  what  truths 
have  you  been  discovering?" 

"One  truth  about  you,  Paul,"  said  Vir- 
ginia, very  gravely,  "  and  one  truth  about  me. 
I  burn — oh,  I  burn  to  tell  them  to  you  !" 

The  Professor  was  enraptured  to  hear  that 
one  half  of  Humanity  had  been  studying 
human  nature ;  and  he  began  asking  Vir- 
ginia if  her  discoveries  belonged  to  the  do- 
main of  historical  or  biological  science. 
Meanwhile  Virginia  had  flung  herself  on  her 


knees  before  him,  and  was  exclaiming  in 
piteous  accents — 

4 '  By  my  fault,  by  my  own  fault,  by  my 
very  grievous  fault,  holy  father,  1  confers  to 
you — 

"Is  the  woman  mad?"  cried  the  Profes- 
sor, starting  up  from  his  seat. 

"  You  are  a  priest,  Paul,"  said  Virginia; 
"that  is  one  of  the  things  I  have  discovered. 
I  am  in  a  state  of  deadly  sin ;  that  is  the 
other :  and  I  must  and  will  confess  to  you. 
Once  a  priest,  always  a  priest.  You  cannot 
get  rid  of  your  orders,  and  you  must  and 
shall  hear  me." 

"  I  was  once  in  orders,  it  is  true,"  said 
Paul,  reluctantly  ;  "  but  how  did  you  find 
out  my  miserable  secret?" 

"In  my  zeal  for  truth,"  said  Virginia,  "I 
broke  open  your  tin  box  ;  I  read  all  your  let- 
ters ;  I  looked  at  your  early  photographs ;  I 
saw  all  your  beautiful  prayers." 

"  You  broke  open  my  box !  "  cried  the  Pro- 
fessor. "  You  read  my  letters  and  my  private 
papers  !  Oh,  horrible  !  oh,  immoral !  What 
shall  we  do  if  half  Humanity  has  no  feeling 
of  honour  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Virginia,  "  it  was  all  for  the 
love  of  truth — of  solemn  and  holy  truth.  I 
sacrificed  every  other  feeling  for  that.  But 
I  have  not  told  you  my  truth  yet ;  and  I  am 
determined  you  shall  hear  it,  or  I  must  still 
remain  in  my  sins.  Paul,  I  am  a  married 
woman  ;  and  I  discover,  in  spite  of  that,  that 
I  have  fallen  in  love  with  you.  My  husband, 
it  is  true,  is  far  away  ;  and,  whatever  we  do, 
he  could  never  possibly  be  the  wiser.  But  I 
am  in  a  state  of  mortal  sin,  nevertheless ;  and  I 
would  give  anything  in  the  world  if  you 
would  only  kiss  me." 

"  Woman  !"  exclaimed  Paul,  aghast  with 
fright  and  horror,  "  do  you  dare  to  abuse 
truth,  by  turning  it  to  such  base  purposes  ? 

"  Oh,  you  are  so  clever,"  Virginia  went  on, 
"  and  when  the  ends  of  your  moustaches  are 
waxed,  you  look  positively  handsome  ;  and  I 
love  you  so  deeply  and  so  tenderly,  that  I 
shall  certainly  go  to  hell  if  you  do  not  give 
me  absolution." 

At  this  the  Professor  jumped  up,  and,  star- 
ing very  hard  at  Virginia,  asked  her  if,  after 
all  that  he  had  said  on  the  ship,  she  really 
believed  in  such  exploded  fallacies  as  hell, 
God,  and  priestcraft. 

She  reminded  him  that  he  had  preached 
there  without  a  surplice,  and  that  she  had 
therefore  not  thought  it  right  to  listen  to  a 
word  he  said. 

"  Ah,"  cried  the  Professor,  with  a  sigh  of 
intense  relief,  "  I  see  it  all  now.  How  can 
Humanity  ever  be  unspeakably  holy  so  long 
as  one  half  of  it  grovels  in  dreams  of  an  un- 


84 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


speakably  holy  God  ?  As  Mr.  Frederic  Har- 
rison truly  says,  a  want  of  faith  in  '  the  essen- 
tial dignity  of  man  is  one  of  the  surest  marks 
of  the  enervating  influence  of  this  dream  of  a 
celestial  glory.'  "  The  Professor  accordingly 
re-delivered  to  Virginia  the  entire  substance 
of  his  lectures  in  the  ship.  He  fully  im- 
pressed on  her  that  all  the  intellect  of  the 
world  was  on  the  side  of  Humanity  ;  and  that 
God's  existence  could  be  disproved  with  a 
box  of  chemicals.  He  was  agreeably  sur- 
prised at  finding  her  not  at  all  unwilling  to 
be  convinced,  and  extremely  unexacting  in 
her  demands  for  proof.  In  a  few  days,  she 
had  not  a  remnant  of  superstition  left.  "  At 
last!"  exclaimed  the  Professor;  "it  has 
come  at  last  !  Unspeakable  happiness  will 
surely  begin  now." 

XVI. 

No  one  now  could  possibly  be  more  eman- 
cipated than  Virginia.  She  tittered  all 
day  long,  and  whenever  the  Professor  asked 
her  why,  she  always  told  him  she  was  think- 
ing of  "an  intelligent  First  Cause,"  a  con- 
ception which  she  said  "was  really  quite 
killing."  But  when  her  first  burst  of  intel- 
lectual excitement  was  over,  she  became  more 
serious.  "  All  thought,  Paul,"  she  said,  "is 
valuable  mainly  because  it  leads  to  action. 
Come,  my  love,  my  dove,  my  beauty,  and  let 
us  kiss  each  other  all  day  long.  Let  us  enjoy 
the  charming  license  which  exact  thought 
shows  us  we  shall  never  be  punished  for." 

This  was  a  result  of  freedom  that  the  Pro- 
fessor had  never  bargained  for.  He  could 
not  understand  it;  "because,"  he  argued, 
"  if  people  were  to  reason  in  that  way,  mo- 
rality would  at  once  cease  to  be  possible." 
But  he  had  seen  so  much  of  the  world  lately, 
that  he  soon  recovered  himself;  and,  recol- 
lecting that  immorality  was  only  ignorance,  he 
began  to  show  Virginia  where  her  error  lay 
— her  one  remaining  error.  "I  perceive,"  he 
said,  "  that  you  are  ignorant  of  one  of  the 
greatest  triumphs  of  exact  thought — the  dis- 
tinction between  the  lower  and  higher  pleas- 
ures. Philosophers,  who  have  thought  the 
whole  thing  over  in  their  studies,  have  be- 
come sure  that  as  soon  as  the  latter  are  pre- 
sented to  men  they  will  at  once  leave  all  and 
follow  them." 

"  They  must  be  very  nice  pleasures,"  said 
Virginia,  "  if  they  would  make  me  leave  kiss- 
ing you  for  the  sake  of  them.' ' 

"  They  are  nice,"  said  the  Professor.  "They 
are  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  the  in- 
tellect, and  the  glorious  apprehension  of 
truth.  Compared  with  these,  kissing  me 
would  be  quite  insipid.  Remain  here  for  a 


moment,  whilst  I  go  to  fetch  something  ;  and 
you  shall  then  begin  to  taste  them." 

In  a  few  moments  Paul  came  back  again, 
and  found  Virginia  in  a  state  of  intense  ex- 
pectancy. 

"  Now "  he  exclaimed,  triumphantly. 

"Now "    exclaimed   Virginia,    with   a 

beating  heart. 

The  Professor  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
and  drew  slowly  forth  from  it  an  object  which 
Virginia  knew  well.  It  reminded  her  of  the 
most  innocent  period  of  her  life ;  but  she 
hated  the  very  sight  of  it  none  the  less.  It 
was  a  Colenso's  Arithmetic. 

"Come,"  said  the  Professor,  "no  truths 
are  so  pure  and  necessary  as  those  of  mathe- 
matics ;  you  shall  at  once  begin  the  glorious 
apprehension  of  them." 

"Oh,  Paul,"  cried  Virginia,  in  an  agony, 
"  but  I  really  don't  care  for  truth  at  all ;  and 
you  know  that  when  I  broke  your  tin  box 
open  and  read  your  private  letters  in  my 
search  for  it,  you  were  very  angry  with  me." 

"Ah,"  said  Paul,  holding  up  his  finger, 
"  but  those  were  not  necessary  truths.  Truths 
about  human  action  and  character  are  not 
necessary  truths  ;  therefore  men  of  science 
care  nothing  about  them,  and  they  have  no 
place  in  scientific  systems  of  ethics.  Pure 
truths  are  of  a  very  different  character ;  and 
however  much  you  may  misunderstand  your 
own  inclinations,  you  can  really  care  for 
nothing  so  much  as  doing  a  few  sums.  I  will 
set  you  some  very  easy  ones  to  begin  with  ; 
and  you  shall  do  them  by  yourself,  whilst  I 
magnify  in  the  next  room  the  parasites  of  the 
missing  link." 

Virginia  saw  that  there  was  no  help  for  it. 
She  did  her  sums  by  herself  the  whole  morn- 
ing, which,  as  at  school  she  had  been  very 
good  at  arithmetic,  was  not  a  hard  task  for 
her ;  and  Paul  magnified  parasites  in  the  next 
room,  and  prepared  slides  for  his  microscope. 

When  they  met  again,  Paul  began  skipping 
and  dancing,  as  if  he  had  gone  quite  out  of 
his  senses  ;  and  every  now  and  then  between 
the  skips,  he  gave  a  sepulchral  groan.  Vir- 
ginia asked  him,  in  astonishment,  what  on 
earth  was  the  matter  with  him, 

"  Matter !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Why,  Hu- 
manity is  at  last  perfect !  All  the  evils  of  ex- 
istence are  removed  ;  we  neither  of  us  believe 
in  a  God  or  a  celestial  future ;  and  we  are 
both  in  full  enjoyment  of  the  higher  pleas- 
ures, and  the  apprehension  of  scientific  truth. 
And  therefore  I  skip  because  Humanity  is  so 
unspeakably  happy ;  and  I  groan  because  it 
is  so  unspeakably  solemn." 

"  Alas,  alas !  "  cried  Virginia,  "  and  would 
not  you  like  to  kiss  me  ?  " 
J      "No,"  said  the  Professor,  sternly;  "and 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


85 


you  would  not  like  me  to  kiss  you.  It  is  im- 
possible that  one  half  of  Humanity  should 
prefer  the  pleasure  of  unlawful  love  to  the 
pleasure  of  finding  out  scientific  truths." 

"But,"  pleaded  Virginia,  "cannot  we 
enjoy  both?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  Professor  ;  "  for  if  I  began 
to  kiss  you,  I  should  soon  not  care  two  straws 
about  the  parasites  of  the  missing  link." 

"Well,"  said  Virginia,  "it  is  nice  of  you 
to  say  that ;  but  still Ah  me  1 " 

XVII. 

Virginia  was  preparing,  with  a  rueful  face, 
to  resume  her  enjoyment  of  the  higher  pleas- 
ures, when  a  horrible  smell,  like  that  of  an 
open  drain,  was  suddenly  blown  in  through 
the  window. 

"Oh,  rapture!"  cried  the  Professor,  as 
Virginia  was  stopping  her  nose  with  her 
handkerchief,  "I  smell  the  missing  link." 
And  in  another  instant  he  was  gone. 

"Well,"  said  Virginia,  "here  is  one  com- 
fort. Whilst  Paul  is  away  I  shall  be  relieved 
from  the  higher  pleasures.  Alas !  "  she 
cried,  as  she  flung  herself  down  on  the  sofa, 
"he  is  so  nice-looking,  and  such  an  enlight- 
ened thinker.  But  it  is  plain  he  has  never 
loved,  or  else  very  certainly  he  would  love 
again." 

Paul  returned  in  a  couple  of  hours,  again 
unsuccessful  in  his  search. 

"Ah,"  cried  Virginia,  "  I  am  so  glad  you 
have  not  caught  the  creature!  " 

"  Glad,"  echoed  the  Professor,  "  glad  !  Do 
you  know  that  till  I  have  caught  the  missing 
link  the  cause  of  glorious  truth  will  suffer 
grievously  ?  The  missing  link  is  the  token  of 
the  solemn  fact  of  our  origin  from  inorganic 
matter.  I  did  catch  one  blessed  glimpse  of 
him.  He  had  certainly  a  silver  band  about 
his  neck.  He  was  about  three  feet  high.  He 
was  rolling  in  a  lump  of  carrion.  It  is 
through  him  that  we  are  related  to  the  stars — 
the  holy,  the  glorious  stars,  about  which  we 
know  so  litttle." 

"  Bother  the  stars!"  said  Virginia;  "I 
couldn't  bear,  Paul,  that  anything  should 
come  between  you  and  me.  I  have  been 
thinking  of  you  and  longing  for  you  the 
whole  time  you  have  been  away." 

"  What !  "  cried  Paul,  "  and  how  have  you 
been  able  to  forego  the  pleasures  of  the  in- 
tellect?" 

"  I  have  deserted  them,"  cried  Virginia, 
"  for  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  which 
I  gathered  from  you  were  also  very  ennobling. 
And  I  found  they  were  so ;  for  I  have  been 
imagining  that  you  loved  me.  Why  is  the 
reality  less  ennobling  than  the  imagination  ? 


!  Paul,  you  shall  love  me  ;  I  will  force  you  to 
\  love  me.     It  will  make  us  both  so  happy  :  we 
shall  never  go  to  hell  for   it ;  and   it   cannot 
I  possibly  cause  the  slightest  scandal." 

The  Professor  was  more  bewildered  than 
ever  by  these  appeals.  He  wondered  how 
Humanity  would  ever  get  on  if  one  half  of  it 
cared  nothing  for  pure  truth,  and  persisted 
in  following  the  vulgar  impulses  that  had 
been  the  most  distinguishing  feature  of  its 
benighted  past — that  is  to  say,  those  ages  of 
its  existence  of  which  any  record  has  been 
preserved  for  us.  Luckily,  however,  Virgin- 
ia came  to  his  assistance. 

"  I  think  I  know,  Paul,"  she  said,  "  why 
I  do  not  care  as  I  should  do  for  the  intellec- 
tual pleasures.  We  have  been  both  seeking 
them  by  ourselves  ;  and  we  have  been  there- 
fore egoistic  hedonists.  It  is  quite  true,  as 
you  say,  that  selfishness  is  a  despicable  thing. 
Let  me,"  she  went  on,  sitting  down  beside 
him,  "  look  through  your  microscope  along 
with  you.  I  think  perhaps,  if  we  shared  the 
pleasure,  the  missing  link's  parasites  might 
have  some  interest  for  me." 

The  Professor  was  overjoyed  at  this  pro- 
posal. The  two  sat  down  side  by  side,  and 
tried  their  best  to  look  simultaneously 
through  the  eye-piece  of  the  microscope. 
Virginia  in  a  moment  expressed  herself  much 
satisfied.  It  is  true  they  saw  nothing  ;  but 
their  cheeks  touched.  The  Professor  too 
seemed  contented  ;  and  said  they  should  botli 
be  in  a  state  of  rapture  when  they  had  got 
the  right  focus.  At  last  Virginia  whispered, 
with  a  soft  smile — 

"  Suppose  we  put  that  nasty  microscope 
aside  ;  it  is  only  in  the  way.  And  then,  oh, 
Paul !  dear  love,  dove  of  a  Paul !  we  can  kiss 
each  other  to  our  hearts'  content." 

Paul  thought  Virginia  quite  incorrigible, 
and  rushed  headlong  out  of  the  room. 

XVIII. 

"Alas  !  "  cried  Paul,  "  what  can  be  done 
to  convince  one  half  of  Humanity  that  it  is 
really  devoted  to  the  higher  pleasures  and 
does  not  care  for  the  lower — at  least  nothing 
to  speak  of  ?  "  The  poor  man  was  in  a  state 
of  dreadful  perplexity,  and  felt  well  nigh  dis- 
tracted. At  last  a  light  broke  in  on  him.  He 
remembered  that  as  one  of  his  most  re- 
vered masters,  Professor  Tyndall.  had  admit- 
ted, a  great  part  of  Humanity  would  always 
need  a  religion,  and  that  Virginia  now  had 
none.  He  at  once  rushed  back  to  her.  "Ah ! " 
he  exclaimed,  "  all  is  explained  now.  You 
cannot  be  in  love  with  me,  for  that  would  be 
unlawful  passion.  Unlawful  passion  is  un- 
reasonable, and  unreasonable  passion  would 


8(5 


POSITIVISM  ON  AN  ISLAND, 


quite  upset  a  system  of  pure  reason,  which  is 
what  exact  thought  shows  us  is  soon  going  to 
govern  the  world.  No!  the  emotions  that  you 
fancy  are  directed  to  me  are  in  reality  cos- 
mic emotion — in  other  words  are  the  reason- 
able religion  of  the  future.  I  must  now  in- 
itiate you  in  its  solemn  and  unspeakably  sig- 
nificant worship." 

"  Religion ! "  exclaimed  Virginia,  not  know- 
ing whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  "It  is  not 
kind  of  you  to  be  making  fun  of  me.  There 
is  no  God,  no  soul,  and  no  supernatural  or- 
der, and  above  all  there  is  no  hell.  How 
then  can  you  talk  to  me  about  religion  ?  " 

"  You,"  replied  Paul,  "  are  associating  re- 
ligion with  theology,  as  indeed  the  world 
hitherto  always  has  done.  But  those  two 
things,  as  Professor  Huxley  well  observes, 
have  absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  each  other. 
'  It  may  be,'  says  that  great  teacher,  '  that 
the  object  of  a  man's  religion  is  an  ideal 
of  sensual  enjoyment,  or '  " 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Virginia,  "  that  is  my  reli- 
gion, Paul." 

"Nonsense!"  replied  Paul;  "that  cannot 
be  the  religion  of  half  Humanity :  else  high, 
holy,  solemn,  awful  morality  would  never  be 
able  to  stand  on  its  own  basis.  See,  the 
night  has  fallen,  the  glorious  moon  has  aris- 
en, the  stupendous  stars  are  sparkling  in  the 
firmament.  Come  down  with  me  to  the  sea- 
shore, where  we  may  be  face  to  face  with  na- 
ture, and  I  will  show  you  then  what  true 
religion — what  true  worship  is." 

The  two  went  out  together.  They  stood  on 
the  smooth  sands,  which  glittered  white  and 
silvery  in  the  dazzling  moonlight.  All  was 
hushed.  The  gentle  murmur  of  the  trees, 
and  the  soft  splash  of  the  sea,  seemed  only  to 
make  the  silence  audible.  The  Professor 
paused  close  beside  Virginia,  and  took  her 
hand.  Virginia  liked  that,  and  thought  that 
religion  without  theology  was  not  perhaps  so 
bad  after  all.  Meanwhile  Paul  had  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  moon.  Then  in  a  voice  almost 
broken  with  emotion,  he  whispered,  "  The 
prayer  of  the  man  of  science,  it  has  been 
said,  must  be  for  the  most  part  of  the  silent 
sort.  He  who  said  that  was  wrong.  It  need 
not  be  silent ;  it  need  only  be  inarticulate. 
I  have  discovered  an  audible  and  a  reasona- 
ble liturgy  which  will  give  utterance  to  the 
full  to  the  religion  of  exact  thought.  Let  us 
both  join  our  voices,  and  let  us  croon  at  the 
moon." 

The  Professor  at  once  began  a  long  low  howl- 
ing. Virginia  joined  him,  until  she  was  out  of 
breath. 

"Oh,  Paul,"  she  said  at  last,  "is  this  more 
rational  than  the  Lord's  Prayer  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  Professor,  "for  we  can 


analyze  and  comprehend  that ;  but  true  re- 
ligious feeling,  as  Professor  Tyndall  tells  us, 
we  can  neither  analyze  nor  comprehend. 
See  how  big  nature  is,  and  how  little — ah, 
how  little ! — we  know  about  it.  Is  it  not 
solemn,  and  sublime,  and  awful  ?  Come,  let 
us  howl  again." 

The  Professor's  devotional  fervour  grew 
every  moment.  At  last  he  put  his  hand  to 
his  mouth,  and  began  hooting  like  an  owl, 
till  it  seemed  that  all  the  island  echoed  to 
him.  The  louder  Paul  hooted  and  howled, 
the  more  near  did  he  draw  to  Virginia. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  as  he  put  his  arm  about 
her  waist,  "it  is  in  solemn  moments  like  this 
that  the  solidarity  of  mankind  becomes  most 
apparent." 

Virginia,  during  the  last  few  moments,  had 
stuck  her  fingers  in  her  ears.  She  now  took 
them  out,  and,  throwing  her  arms  round 
Paul's  neck,  tried,  with  her  cheek  on  his 
shoulder,  to  make  another  little  hoot ;  but 
the  sound  her  lips  formed  was  much  more 
like  a  kiss.  The  power  of  religion  was  at 
last  too  much  for  Paul. 

"  For  the  sake  of  cosmic  emotion,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "0  other  half  of  Humanity,  and 
for  the  sake  of  rational  religion,  I  will  kiss 
you." 

The  Professor  was  bending  down  his  face 
over  her,  when,  as  if  by  magic,  he  started, 
stopped,  and  remained  as  one  petrified. 
Amidst  the  sharp  silence,  there  rang  a  hu- 
man shout  from  the  rocks. 

"  Oh  !"  shrieked  Virginia,  falling  on  her 
knees,  "  it  is  a  miracle  !  it  is  a  miracle  ! 
God  is  angry  with  us  for  pretending  that  we 
do  not  believe  on  him." 

The  Professor  was  as  white  as  a  sheet ; 
but  he  struggled  with  his  perturbation  man- 
fully. 

"  It  is  not  a  miracle,"  he  cried,  "  but  an 
hallucination.  It  is  an  axiom  with  exact 
thinkers  that  all  proofs  of  the  miraculous 
are  hallucinations." 

"See,"  shrieked  Virginia  again,  "they 
are  coming,  they  are  coming.  Do  not  you 
see  them  ?" 

Paul  looked,  and  there,  sure  enough,  were 
two  figures,  a  male  and  a  female,  advancing 
slowly  towards  them,  across  the  moonlit 
sand. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  cried  Paul;  "it  cannot 
possibly  be  anything.  I  protest,  in  the  name 
of  science,  that  it  is  an  optical  delusion." 

Suddenly  the  female  figure  exclaimed, 
"Thank  God,  it  is  he  !" 

In  another  moment  the  male  figure  ex- 
claimed, "Thank  God,  it  is  she!" 

"My  husband!"  gasped  Virginia. 

"My  wife!"  replied  the  -bishop  (for  it  was 


THE  WANTS  OF  MAN. 


87 


none  other  than  he).  "Welcome  to  Chasu- 
ble Island.  By  the  blessing  of  God  it  is  on 
your  own  home  you  have  been  wrecked,  and 
you  have  been  living  in  the  very  house  that 
I  had  intended  to  prepare  for  you.  Provi- 
dentially, too,  Professor  Darnley's  wife  has 
called  here,  in  her  search  for  her  husband, 
who  has  overstayed  his  time.  See,  my  love, 
my  dove,  my  beauty,  here  is  the  monkey  I 
promised  you  as  a  pet,  which  broke  loose  a 
few  days  ago,  and  which  I  was  in  the  act  of 
looking  for  when  your  joint  cries  attracted 
us,  and  we  found  you." 

A  yell  of  delight  here  broke  from  the  Pro- 
fessor. The  eyes  of  the  three  others  were 
turned  on  him,  and  he  was  seen  embracing 
wildly  a  monkey  which  the  bishop  led  by  a 
chain.  "  The  missing  link!"  he  exclaimed, 
"  the  missing  link  !" 

"Nonsense!"  cried  the  sharp  tones  of  a 
lady  with  a  green  gown  and  grey  cork-screw 
curls.  "It  is  nothing  but  a  monkey  that  the 
good  bishop  has  been  trying  to  tame  for  his 
wife.  Don't  you  see  her  name  engraved  on 
the  collar?" 

The  shrill  accents  acted  like  a  charm  upon 
Paul.  He  sprang  away  from  the  creature 
that  he  had  been  just  caressing.  He  gazed 
for  a  moment  on  Virginia's  lovely  form,  her 
exquisite  toilette,  and  her  melting  eyes. 
Then  he  turned  wildly  to  the  green  gown  and 
the  grey  cork-screw  curls.  Sorrow  and  su- 
perstition he  felt  were  again  invading  Hu- 
manity. "Alas!"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  "I 
do  now  indeed  believe  in  hell." 

"And  I,"  cried  Virginia,  with  much 
greater  tact,  and  rushing  into  the  arms  of 
her  bishop,  "  once  more  believe  in  heaven." 
— The  Contemporary  Review. 

W.  H.  MALLOCK. 


THE  WANTS  OF  MAN. 

JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 

JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS,  sixth  President  of  the  United 
States,  (1325-29),  was  born  in  Braintree,  Mass.,  July  11, 
17G7,  died  in  the  Capitol  at  Washington,  Feb.  23, 1848. 
Ho  filled  many  public  stations,  was  Professor  of  Rhetoric 
at  Harvard,  minister  to  Russia  and  England,  Secretary 
ef  State,  and  Senator  and  Representative  in  Congress. 
He  wrote  copiously  in  prose  and  verse,  and  his  oratory 
gained  him  the  title  of  the  "  old  man  eloquent."  His 
styl<»  is  more  distinguished  for  strength  than  grace,  and 
bis  posthumous  diary,  in  twelve  volumes,  is  full  of  caustic 
observations  upon  the  men  and  the  events  of  his  time. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 
"Tig  not  with  me  exactly  so ; 
But  'tis  so  in  my  gong. 


M y  wants  are  many  and,  if  told. 
Would  muster  many  a  score ; 

And  were  each  wish  a  mint  of  gold, 
I  still  should  long  for  more. 


What  first  I  want  is  daily  bread — 

And  canvas-backs — and  wine — 
And  all  the  realms  of  nature  spread 

Before  me,  when  I  dine. 
Four  courses  scarcely  can  provide 

My  appetite  to  quell ; 
With  four  choice  cooks  from  France  besida, 

To  dress  my  dinner  well. 

What  next  I  want,  at  princely  cost, 

Is  elegant  attire : 
Black  sable  furs  for  winter's  frost, 

And  silks  for  summer's  fire, 
And  Cashmere  shawls,  and  Brussels  lace 

My  bosom's  front  to  deck, — 
And  diamond  rings  my  hands  to  grace, 

And  rubies  for  my  neck. 

And  then  I  want  a  mansion  fair, 

A  dwelling-house,  in  style, 
Four  stories  high,  for  wholesome  air— 

A  massive  marble  pile  ; 
With  halls  for  banquetings  and  balls, 

All  furnish'd  rich  and  fine  ; 
With  high-blood  studs  in  fifty  stall*, 

And  cellars  for  my  wine. 

I  want  a  garden  and  a  park, 

My  dwelling  to  surround — 
A  thousand  acres,  (bless  the  markFy 

With  walls  encompassed  round — 
Where  flocks  may  range  and  herds  iiiay  low, 

And  kids  and  lambkins  play, 
And  flowers  and  fruits  commingled  grow, 

All  Eden  to  display. 

I  want,  when  summer's  foliage  full*, 

And  autumn  strips  the  trees, 
A  house  within  the  city's  walls, 

For  comfort  and  for  ease ; 
But  here,  as  space  is  somewhat  scant, 

And  acres  somewhat  rare, 
My  house  in  town  I  only  want 

To  occupy — a  square. 

I  want  a  steward,  butler,  cooks ; 

A  coachman,  footman,  grooms ; 
A  library  of  well-bound  books, 

And  picture-garnish'd  rooms ; 
Corregio's  Magdalen  and  Night, 

The  Matron  of  the  Chair; 
Guido's  fleet  coursers  in  their  flight, 

And  Claudes,  at  least  a  pair. 


THE  WANTS  OF  MAN. 


I  want  a  cabinet  profuse 

Of  medals,  coins,  and  gems; 
A  printing-press  for  private  use, 

Of  fifty  thousand  ems ; 
And  plants,  and  minerals,  and  shells ; 

Worms,  insects,  fishes,  birds ; 
And  every  beast  on  earth  that  dwells 

In  solitude  or  herds. 

I  want  a  board  of  burnish'd  plate, 

Of  silver  and  of  gold  ; 
lureens  of  twenty  pounds  in  weight, 

And  sculpture's  richest  mould ; 
Plateaus,  with  chandeliers  and  lamps, 

Plates,  dishes — all  the  same ; 
And  porcelain  vases,  with  the  stumps 

Of  Sevres  and  Angouleme. 

And  maples  of  fair  glossy  stain, 

Must  form  my  chamber  doors, 
And  carpets  of  the  Wilton  grain 

Must  cover  all  my  floors ; 
My  walls  with  tapestry  bedeck'd, 

Must  never  be  outdone ; 
And  damask  curtains  must  protect 

Their  colours  from  the  sun. 

And  mirrors  of  the  largest  pane 

From  Venice  must  be  brought ; 
And  sandal-wood  anil  bamboo  cane, 

For  chairs  and  tables  bought ; 
On  all  the  mantel-pieces,  clocks 

Of  thrice-gilt  bronze  must  stand, 
And  screens  of  ebony  and  box 

Invite  the  stranger's  hand. 

I  want  (who  does  not  want  ?)  a  wife, — 

Affectionate  and  fair; 
To  solace  all  the  woes  of  life, 

And  all  its  joys  to  share. 
Of  temper  sweet,  of  yielding  will, 

Of  firm,  yet  placid  mind, — 
With  all  my  faults  to  love  me  still 

With  sentiment  refined. 

And  as  Time's  car  incessant  runs, 

And  Fortune  fills  my  store, 
I  want  of  daughters  and  of  sons 

From  eight  to  half  a  score. 
1  want  (alas !  can  mortal  dare 

Such  bliss  on  earth  to  crave  ?) 
That  all  the  girls  be  chaste  and  fair, 

The  boys  all  wise  and  brave. 

And  when  my  bosom's  darling  sings, 

With  melody  divine, 
A  pedal  harp  of  many  strings 

Must  with  her  voice  combine. 
Piano,  exquisitely  wrought, 

Must  open  stand  apart, 
That  all  my  daughters  may  be  taught 

To  win  the  stranger's  heart. 


My  wife  and  daughters  will  desire 

Refreshment  from  perfumes, 
Cosmetics  for  the  skin  require, 

And  artificial  blooms. 
The  civet  fragrance  shall  dispense, 

And  treasured  sweets  return ; 
Cologne  revive  the  flagging  sense, 

And  smoking  amber  burn. 

And  when  at  night  my  weary  head 

Begins  to  droop  and  doze, 
A  chamber  south,  to  hold  my  bed, 

For  nature's  soft  repose ; 
With  blankets,  counterpanes,  and  sheet, 

Mattress,  and  sack  of  down, 
And  comfortables  for  my  feet, 

And  pillows  for  my  crown. 

I  want  a  warm  and  faithful  friend, 

To  cheer  the  adverse  hour ; 
Who  ne'er  to  flatter  will  descend, 

Nor  bend  the  knee  to  power, — 
A  friend  to  chide  me  when  I'm  wrong, 

My  inmost  soul  to  see ; 
And  that  my  friendship  prove  as  strong 

For  him  as  his  for  me. 

I  want  a  kind  and  tender  heart, 

For  others'  wants  to  feel ; 
A  soul  secure  from  fortune's  dart, 

And  bosom  arm'd  with  steel ; 
To  bear  divine  chastisement's  rod, 

And,  mingling  in  my  plan, 
Submission  to  the  will  of  God, 

With  charity  to  man. 

I  want  a  keen  observing  eye, 

An  ever-listening  ear, 
The  truth  through  all  disguise  to  spy, 

And  wisdom's  voice  to  hear: 
A  tongue,  to  speak  at  virtue's  need, 

In  heaven's  sublimest  strain ; 
And  lips,  the  cause  of  man  to  plead, 

And  never  plead  in  vain. 

I  want  uninterrupted  health, 

Throughout  my  long  career, 
And  streams  of  never-failing  wealth, 

To  scatter  far  and  near — 
The  destitute  to  clothe  and  feed, 

Free  bounty  to  bestow, 
Supply  the  helpless  orphan's  need, 

And  soothe  the  widow's  woe. 

I  want  the  genius  to  conceive, 

The  talents  to  unfold, 
Designs,  the  vicious  to  retrieve, 

The  virtuous  to  uphold ; 
Inventive  power,  combining  skilL 

A  persevering  soul, 
Of  human  hearts  to  mould  the  will, 

And  reach  from  pole  to  pole. 


THE  BABIES. 


89 


I  want  the  seals  of  power  and  place, 

The  ensigns  of  command ; 
Charged  by  the  People's  unbought  grace 

To  rule  my  native  land. 
Nor  crown  nor  scepter  would  I  ask 

But  from  my  country's  will, 
By  day,  by  night,  to  ply  the  task 

Her  cup  of  bliss  to  nil. 

I  want  the  voice  of  honest  praise 

To  follow  me  behind, 
And  to  be  thought  in  future  days 

The  friend  of  human  kind, 
That  after  ages,  as  they  rise, 

Exulting  may  proclaim 
In  choral  union  to  the  skies 

Their  blessings  on  my  name. 

These  are  the  Wants  of  mortal  Man, — 

I  cannot  want  them  long, 
For  life  itself  is  but  a  span, 

And  earthly  bliss — a  song. 
My  last  great  Want— absorbing  all — 

Is,  when  beneath  the  sod, 
And  summoned  to  my  final  call, 

The  Mercy  of  my  God. 

And  oh !  while  circles  in  my  veins 

Of  life  the  purple  stream, 
And  yet  a  fragment  small  remains 

Of  nature's  transient  dream, 
My  soul,  in  humble  hope  unseared, 

Forget  not  thou  to  pray, 
That  this,  THY  WANT,  may  be  prepared 

To  meet  the  Judgment  Day. 


THE  BABIES. 

MARK  TWAIN. 

Speech  of  Mark  Twain  at  the  banquet  given  in  honor 
of  Gen.  Grant,  by  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee,  at  the 
Palmer  House,  Chicago,  Nov.  14, 1879. 

TOAST  : 

"The  Babies — As  they  comfort  us  in  our 
sorrows,  let  us  not  forget  them  in  our  fes- 
tivities." 

I  like  that.  We  haven't  all  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  ladies;  we  haven't  all  been 
generals,  or  poets,  or  statesmen  ;  but  when 
the  toast  works  down  to  the  babies,  we 
stand  on  common  ground,  for  we  have  all 
been  babies.  It  is  a  shame  that  for  a  thou- 
sand years  the  world's  banquets  have  utterly 
ignored  the  baby — as  if  he  didn't  amount  to 
anything !  If  you  gentlemen  will  stop  and 
think  a  minute, — if  you  will  go  back  fifty  or 
a  hundred  years,  to  your  early  married  life, 


and  recontemplate  your  first  baby,  you  will 
remember  that  he  amounted  to  a  good  deal, 
and  even  something  over.  You  soldiers  all 
know  that  when  that  little  fellow  arrived  at 
the  family  head-quarters  you  had  to  hand  in 
your  resignation.  He  took  entire  command. 
You  became  his  lackey,  his  mere  body-ser- 
vant, and  you  had  to  stand  around,  too.  He 
was  not  a  commander  who  made  allowances 
for  time,  distance,  weather,  or  anything  else. 
You  had  to  execute  his  order  whether  it  was 
possible  or  not.  And  there  was  only  one 
form  of  marching  in  his  manual  of  tactics, 
and  that  was  the  double-quick.  He  treated 
you  with  every  sort  of  insolence  and  dis- 
respect, and  the  bravest  of  you  didn't  dare 
to  say  a  word.  You  could  face  the  death- 
storm  of  Donelson  and  Vicksburg,  and  give 
back  blow  for  blow  ;  but  when  he  clawed 
your  whiskers,  and  pulled  your  hair,  and 
twisted  your  nose,  you  had  to  take  it.  When 
the  thunders  of  war  were  sounding  in  your 
ears,  you  set  your  faces  toward  the  batteries 
and  advanced  with  steady  tread ;  but  when 
he  turned  on  the  terrors  of  his  war-whoop, 
you  advanced  in  the  other  direction — and 
mighty  glad  of  the  chance,  too.  When  he 
called  for  soothing  syrup,  did  you  venture  to 
throw  out  any  side  remarks  about  certain 
services  unbecoming  an  officer  and  a  gentle- 
man? No, — you  got  up  and  got  it.  If  he 
ordered  his  bottle,  and  it  wasn't  warm,  did 
you  talk  back  ?  Not  you, — you  went  to  work 
and  warmed  it.  You  even  descended  so  far 
in  your  menial  office  as  to  take  a  suck  at  that 
warm,  insipid  stuff  yourself,  to  see  if  it  was 
right, — three  parts  water  to  one  of  milk,  a 
touch  of  sugar  to  modify  the  colic,  and  a  drop 
of  peppermint  to  kill  those  immortal  hiccups. 
I  can  taste  that  stuff  yet.  And  how  many 
things  you  learned  as  you  went  along  ;  senti- 
mental young  folks  still  took  stock  in  that 
beautiful  old  saying  that  when  the  baby 
smiles  in  his  sleep,  it  is  because  the  angels 
are  whispering  to  him.  Very  pretty,  but 
"  too  thin,"' — simply  wind  on  the  stomach., 
my  friends !  If  the  baby  proposed  to  take  a 
walk  at  his  usual  hour,  2.30  in  the  morning, 
didn't  you  rise  up  promptly  and  remark— 
with  a  mental  addition  which  wouldn't  improve 
a  Sunday-school  book  much — that  that  was 
the  very  thing  you  were  about  to  propose 
yourself!  Oh,  you  were  under  good  disci- 
pline !  And  as  you  went  fluttering  up  and 
down  the  room  in  your  "undress  uniform" 
you  not  only  prattled  undignified  baby-talk, 
but  even  tuned  up  your  martial  voices  and 
tried  to  sing  "Rockaby  baby  in  a  tree-top," 
for  instance.  What  a  spectacle  for  an  Army 
of  the  Tennessee !  And  what  an  affliction  for 
the  neighbors,  too, — for  it  isn't  everybody 


90 


BUDGE'S  VERSION  OF  THE  FLOOD. 


within  a  mile  around  that  likes  military 
music  at  three  in  the  morning.  And  when 
you  had  been  keeping  this  sort  of  thing  up 
two  or  three  hours,  and  your  little  velvet- 
head  intimated  that  nothing  suited  him  like 
exercise  and  noise, — "Go  on!" — what  did 
you  do  ?  You  simply  went  on,  till  you  disap- 
peared in  the  last  ditch. 

The  idea  that  a  baby  doesn't  amount  to 
anything !  Why,  one  baby  is  just  a  house  and 
a  front-yard  full  by  itself.  One  baby  can  fur- 
nish more  business  than  you  and  your  whole 
interior  department  can  attend  to.  He  is 
enterprising,  irrepressible,  brimful  of  lawless 
activities.  Do  what  you  please,  you  can't 
make  him  stay  on  the  reservation.  Sufficient 
unto  the  day  is  one  baby  ; — as  long  as  you 
are  in  your  mind  don't  you  ever  pray  for 
twins. 

Yes,  it  was  high  time  for  a  toast-master  to 
recognize  the  importance  of  the  babies. 
Think  what  is  in  store  for  the  present  crop. 
Fifty  years  hence  we  shall  all  be  dead,  I 
trust,  and  then  this  flag,  if  it  still  survive, — 
let  us  hope  it  may — will  be  floating  over  a  re- 
public numbering  200,000,000  souls,  accord- 
ing to  the  settled  laws  of  our  increase  ;  our 
present  schooner  of  state  will  have  grown 
into  a  political  leviathan — a  Great  Eastern — 
and  the  cradled  babies  of  to-day  will  be  on 
deck.  Let  them  be  well  trained,  for  we  are 
going  to  leave  a  big  contract  on  their  hands. 
Among  the  three  or  four  million  cradles  now 
rocking  in  the  land  are  some  which  this  na- 
tion would  preserve  for  ages  as  sacred  things 
if  we  could  know  which  ones  they  are.  In 
one  of  these  cradles  the  unconscious  Farragut 
of  the  future  is  at  this  moment  teething — think 
of  it! — and  putting  in  a  world  of  dead-earn- 
est, unai-ticulated,  but  perfectly  justifiable 
profanity  over  it,  too  ;  in  another  the  future 
great  historian  is  lying — and  doubtless  he 
will  continue  to  lie  until  his  earthly  mission 
is  ended  ;  in  another  the  future  President  is 
busying  himself  with  no  profounder  problem 
of  state  than  what  the  mischief  has  become  ol 
his  hair  so  early  ;  and  in  a  mighty  array  o1 
other  cradles  there  are  now  some  60,000  fu- 
ture office-seekers  getting  ready  to  furnish 
him  occasion  to  grapple  with  that  same  olc 
problem  a  second  time  ;  and  in  still  one  more 
cradle,  somewhere  under  the  flag,  the  future 
illustrious  commander-in-chief  of  the  Ameri 
can  armies  is  so  little  burdened  with  his  ap 
proaching  grandeurs  and  responsibilities  as 
to  be  giving  his  whole  strategic  mind,  at  this 
moment,  to  trying  to  find  out  some  way  to 
get  his  own  big  toe  into  his  mouth, — ai 
achievement  which  (meaning  no  disrespect 
the  illustrious  guest  of  this  evening  turne< 
At*  whole  attention  to  some  fifty-six  years  ago 


And  if  the  child  is  but  the  prophecy  of  the 
man,  there  are  mighty  few  will  doubt  that  he 
succeeded. 

S.  L.  CLEMENS. 


PARAPHRASE  FROM  SENECA. 

Let  him  that  will,  ascend  the  tottering  scat 
Of  courtly  grandeur,  and  become  as  great 
As  are  his  mounting  wishes ;  as  for  me, 
Let  sweet  repose  and  rest  my  portion  be ; 
Give  me  some  mean  obscure  recess,  a  sphere 
Out  of  the  road  of  business,  or  the  fear 
Of  falling  lower ;  where  I  sweetly  may 
Myself  and  dear  retirement  still  enjoy  : 
Let  not  my  life  or  name  be  known  unto 
The  grandees  of  the  time,  tost  to  and  fro 
By  censures  or  applause ;  but  let  my  age 
Slide  gently  b}' ;  not  overthwart  the  stage 
Of  public  action ;  unheard,  unseen, 
And  unconcerned,  as  if  I  ne'er  had  been. 
And  thus,  while  I  shall  pass  my  silent  days 
In  Hhndy  privacy,  free  from  the  noise 
And  bustles  of  the  mad  world,  then  shall  I 
A  good  old  innocent  plebeian  die. 
Death  is  a  mere  surprise,  a  very  snare 
To  him,  that  makes  it  his  life's  greatest  care 
To  be  a  public  pageant ;  known  to  all, 
But  unacquainted  with  himself,  doth  fall. 

SIE  MATTHEW  HA  LI. 


"BUDGE'S   VERSION   OF  THE   FLOOD." 

A  CHAPTER  FROM  "HELEN'S  BABIES." 

That  afternoon  I  devoted  to  making  a  bou- 
quet for  Miss  Mayton,  and  a  most  delightful 
occupation  I  found  it.  It  was  no  florist's 
bouquet,  composed  of  only  a  few  kinds  of 
flowers,  wired  upon  sticks,  and  arranged  ac- 
cording to  geometric  pattern.  I  used  many  a 
rare  flower,  too  shy  of  bloom  to  recommend 
itself  to  florists  ;  I  combined  tints  almost  as 
numerous  as  the  flowers  were,  and  perfumes 
to  which  city  bouquets  are  utter  strangers. 

At  length  it  was  finished,  but  my  delight 
suddenly  became  clouded  by  the  dreadful 
thought,  "  What  will  people  say  ?"  Ah !  I  had 
it.  I  had  seen  in  one  of  the  library-drawers 
a  small  pasteboard  box,  shaped  like  a  band- 
box ;  doubtless  that  would  hold  it.  I  found 
the  box  ;  it  was  of  just  the  size  I  needed,  I 
dropped  my  card  into  the  bottom — no  danger 
of  a  lady  not  finding  the  card  accompanying 
a  gift  of  flowers — neatly  fitted  the  bouquet  in 
the  center  of  the  box,  and  went  in  search  of 


BUDGE'S  VERSION  OF  THE  FLOOD. 


91 


Mike.  He  winked  cheeringly  as  I  explained 
the  nature  of  his  errand,  and  lie  whispered  : 

"  I'll  do  it  as  clane  as  a  whistle,  yer  honor. 
Mistress  Clarkson's  cook  and  mesilf  under- 
sthand  each  other,  an'  I'm  used  to  goin'  up 
the  back  way.  Niver  a  man  can  see  but  the 
angels,  an'  they  won't  tell." 

"  Very  well,  Mike  ;  here's  a  dollar  for  you ; 
you'll  find  the  box  on  the  hat-rack,  in  the 
hall." 

Toddie  disappeared  somewhere,  after  sup- 
pCr,  and  came  back  very  disconsolate. 

"  Can't  find  my  dolly's  k'adle,"  he  whined. 

"Never  mind,  old  pet,"  said  I  soothingly. 
"  Uncle  will  ride  you  on  his  foot." 

"  But  I  want  my  dolly's  k'adle,"  said  he, 
piteously  rolling  out  his  lower  lip. 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  tell  you  a  story?" 

For  a  moment  Toddie' s  face  indicated  a  ter- 
rible internal  conflict  between  old  Adam  and 
mother  Eve  ;  but  curiosity  finally  overpower- 
ed natural  depravity,  and  Toddie  murmured : 

"  Yesh." 

"  What  shall  I  tell  you  about?" 

"  'Bout  Nawndeark." 

"  About  ivhat?  ?  " 

"  He  means  Noah  an*  the  ark,"  exclaimed 
Budge. 

"  Datsh  what  /  shay — Nawndeark,"  de- 
clared Toddie. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  hastily  refreshing  my 
memory  by  picking  up  the  Bible — for  Helen, 
like  most  people,  is  pretty  sure  to  forget  to 
pack  her  Bible  when  she  runs  away  from 
home  for  a  few  days — "  well,  once  it  rained 
forty  days  and  nights,  and  everybody  was 
drowned  from  the  face  of  the  earth  excepting 
Noah,  a  righteous  man,  who  was  saved  with 
all  his  family,  in  an  ark  which  the  Lord 
commanded  him  to  build." 

"  Uncle  Harry,"  said  Budge,  after  contem- 
plating me  with  open  eyes  and  mouth  for  at 
least  two  minutes  after  I  had  finished,  "do 
you  think  that's  Noah  ?  " 

"Certainly,  Budge;  here's  the  whole  storj 
in  the  Bible." 

"Well,  /don't  think  it's  Noah  one  single 
bit,"  said  he,  with  increasing  emphasis. 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  we  read  different 
Bibles,  Budge ;  but  let's  hear  your  version." 

"Huh?" 

"  Tell  me  about  Noah,  if  you  know  so  much 
about  him." 

"  I  will,  if  you  want  me  to.  Once  the 
Lord  felt  so  uncomfortable  cos  folks  was  bad 
that  he  was  sorry  he  ever  made  anybody,  or 
any  world  or  anything,  But  Noah  wasn't 
bad ;  the  Lord  liked  him  first-rate,  so  he  told 
Noah  to  build  a  big  ark,  and  then  the  Lord 
would  make  it  rain  so  everybody  should  be 
drownded  but  Noah  an'  his  little  boys  a,n' 


girls,  an'  doggies  an'  pussies  an'  mamma- 
cows  an'  little-boy-cows  an'  little-girl-cows 
an'  bosses  an'  everything;  they'd  go  in  the 
ark  an'  wouldn't  get  wetted  a  bit  when  it 
rained.  An'  Noah  took  lots  of  things  to  eat 
in  the  ark — cookies  an'  milk  an'  oatmeal  an' 
strawberries  an'  porgies  an'— oh,  yes,  plum- 
puddings  an'  pumpkin-pies.  But  Noah  didn't 
want  everybody  to  get  drownded  so  he  talked 
to  the  folks'  and  said,  "It's  goin'  to  rain  awful 
pretty  soon ;  you'd  better  be  good,  an'  then 
the  Lord' 11  let  you  come  into  my  ark.'  An' 
they  jus'  said,  '  Oh !  if  it  rains  we'll  go  in 
the  house  till  it  stops  ; '  an'  other  folks  said, 
'  We  ain'  t  afraid  of  rain ;  we'  ve  got  an  um- 
brella.' An'  some  more  said  they  wasn't 
goin'  to  be  afraid  of  just  a  rain.  But  it 
did  rain  though,  an'  folks  went  in  their 
houses,  an'  the  water  came  in,  an'  they  went 
upstairs,  an'  the  water  came  up  there,  an' 
they  got  on  the  tops  of  the  houses,  an'  up  in 
big  trees,  an'  up  in  mountains,  an'  the  water 
went  after  'em  everywhere  an'  drownded 
everybody,  only  just  except  Noah  an'  the 
people  in  the  ark.  An'  it  rained  forty  days 
and  nights,  an'  then  it  stopped,  an'  Noah  got 
out  of  the  ark,  an'  he  an'  his  little  boys  and 
girls  went  wherever  they  wanted  to,  an'  every- 
thing in  the  world  was  all  theirs ;  there 
wasn't  anybody  to  tell  'em  to  go  home,  nor 
no  kindergarten  schools  to  go  to,  nor  no  bad 
boys  to  fight  'em,  nor  nothin'.  Now  tell  us 
'nother  story." 

"An*  I  want  my  dolly's  k'adle.  Ocken 
Hawwy,  I  wants  my  dolly's  k'adle,  tause  my 
dolly's  in  it,  an'  I  want  to  shee  her,"  inter- 
rupted Toddie. 

Just  then  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  "Come 
in !"  I  shouted. 

In  stepped  Mike,  with  an  air  of  the  greatest 
secrecy,  handed  me  a  letter  and  the  identical 
box  in  whicli  I  had  sent  the  flowers  to  Miss 
Mayton.  What  could  it  mean  ?  I  hastily 
opened  the  envelope,  and  at  the  same  time 
Toddie  shrieked : 

"  Oh,  darsh  my  dolly's  k'adle — dare  tizh  !" 
snatched  and  opened  the  box,  and  displayed — 
his  doll !  My  heart  sickened,  and  did  not 
regain  its  strength  during  the  perusal  of  the 
following  note : 

Miss  Mayton  herewith  returns  to  Mr.  Burton  the 
package  which  just  arrived,  with  his  card.  She  recog- 
nizes the  contents  as  a  portion  of  the  apparent  property 
of  one  of  Mr.  Burton's  nephews,  but  is  unable  to  un- 
derstand why  it  should  have  been  sent  to  her. 

"JUNE  20, 1875." 

"  Toddie,"  I  roared,  as  my  younger  nephew 
caressed  his  loathsome  doll,  and  murmured 
endearing  words  to  it,  "  where  did  you  get 
that  box  ? " 


THE  TREACHERY  OF  METTIUS. 


"  On  the  hat-wack,"  replied  the  youth, 
•with  perfect  fearlessness.  "I  keeps  it  in  ze 
book-case  djawer,  an'  somebody  took  it  'way 
an'  put  nasty  ole  flowers  in  it." 

"Where  are  those  flowers?"  I  demanded. 

Toddie  looked  up  with  considerable  sur- 
prise, but  promptly  replied : 

"I  froed  'em  away — don't  want  no  ole 
flowers  in  my  dolly's  k'adle.  That's  ze  way 

Bhe  wocks — see  ? ' ' 

J.  HABBEBTON. 


THE  LAOCOON. 

Laocoon !  thou  great  embodiment 

Of  human  life  and  human  history  ! 

Thou  record  of  the  pit-it,  thou  prophecy 

Of  the  sad  future,  thou  majestic  voice, 

Pealing  along  the  ages  from  old  time ! 

Thou  wail  of  agonized  humanity  ! 

There  lives  no  thought  in  marble  like  to  thee ! 

Thou  hast  no  kindred  in  the  Vatican, 

But  standest  separate  among  the  dreams 

Of  old  mythologies — alone — alone ! 

The  beautiful  Apollo  at  thy  side 

Is  but  a  marble  dream,  and  dreams  are  all 

The  gods  and  goddesses  and  fauns  and  fates 

That  populate  those  wondrous  halls ;  but  thou, 

Standing  among  them,  liftost  up  thyself 

In  majesty  of  meaning,  till  they  sink 

Far  from  tho  sight,  no  more  significant 

Than  the  poor  toys  of  children.    For  thou  art 

A  voice  from  out  the  world's  experience, 

Speaking  of  all  the  generations  past 

To  all  the  generations  yet  to  come 

Of  the  long  struggle,  the  sublime  despair, 

The  wild  and  weary  agony  of  man  ! 

Ay,  Adam  and  his  offspring,  in  the  toils 

Of  the  twin  serpents  Sin  and  Suffering, 

Thou  dost  impersonate ;  and  as  I  gaze 

Upon  the  twining  monsters  that  enfold 

In  unrelaxing,  unrelenting  coils, 

The  awful  energies,  and  plant  their  fangs 

Deep  in  thy  quivering  flesh,  while  still  thy  might 

In  fierce  convulsion  foils  the  fateful  wrench 

That  would  destroy  thee,  I  am  overwhelmed 

With  a  strange  sympathy  of  kindred  pain, 

And  gee  through  gathering  tears  the  tragedy, 

The  curse  and  conflict  of  a  ruined  race ! 

Those  Rhodian  sculptors  were  gigantic  men, 

Whose  inspirations  came  from  other  source 

Than  their  religion,  though  they  chose  to  speak 

Through  its  familiar  language, — men  who  saw, 

And,  seeing  quite  divinely,  felt  how  weak 

To  cure  the  world's  great  woo  were  all  the  powers 

Whose  reign  their  age  acknowledged.    So  they  sat — 

The  immortal  three — and  pondered  long  and  well 

What  one.  gr  -at  work  should  speak  the  truth  for  them,- 

What  one  great  work  should  rise  and  testify 


That  they  had  found  the  topmost  fact  of  life, 

Above  the  reach  of  all  philosophies 

And  all  religions — every  scheme  of  man 

To  placate  or  dethrone.    That  fact  they  found, 

And  moulded  into  form.    The  silly  priest 

Whose  desecrations  of  the  altar  stirred 

The  vengeance  of  his  God,  and  summoned  forth 

The  wreathed  gorgons  of  the  slimy  deep 

To  crush  him  and  his  children,  was  the  word 

By  which  they  spoke  to  their  own  age  and  race, 

That  listened  and  applauded,  knowing  nut 

That  high  above  the  small  significance 

They  apprehended,  rose  the  grand  intent 

That  mourned  their  doom  and  breathed  a  world's  despair  I 

Be  sure  it  was  no  fable  that  inspired 

So  grand  an  utterance.    Perchance  some  leaf 

From  an  old  Hebrew  record  had  conveyed 

A  knowledge  of  the  genesis  of  man. 

Perchance  some  fine  conception  rose  in  them 

Of  unity  of  nature  and  of  race, 

Springing  from  one  beginning.    Nay,  perchance 

Some  vision  flashed  before  their  thoughtful  eyes 

Inspired  by  God,  which  showed  the  mighty  man, 

Who,  unbegotten,  had  begot  a  race 

That  to  his  lot  was  linked  through  countless  time 

By  living  chains,  from  which  in  vain  it  strove 

To  wrest  its  tortured  limbs  and  leap  amain 

To  freedom  and  to  rest !     It  matters  not : 

The  double  word— the  fable  and  the  fact, 

The  childish  figment  and  the  mighty  truth, 

Are  blent  in  one.    The  first  was  for  a  day 

And  dying  Rome ;  the  last  for  later  time 

And  all  mankind. 

J.  G.  HOLLAND. 


THE  TREACHERY  OF  METTIUS  AND  ITS 
PUNISHMENT. 

The  peace  after  the  combat  between  the 
Horatii  and  the  Curiatii  which  resulted  in  a 
treaty  of  peace  between  the  Romans  and  the 
Albans,  was  not  of  long  continuance.  Ihe 
dissatisfaction  of  the  multitude,  on  account  of 
the  power  and  fortune  of  the  state  having  been 
hazarded  on  three  champions,  perverted  the 
unsteady  mind  of  the  dictator ;  and  as  his 
designs,  though  honourable,  had  not  been 
crowned  with  success,  he  endeavoured,  by 
others  of  a  different  kind,  to  recover  the  es 
teem  of  his  countrymen.  With  this  view, 
therefore,  as  formerly,  in  time  of  war,  he 
had  sought  peace,  so  now,  when  peace  was 
established,  he  as  ardently  wished  for  war : 
but,  perceiving  that  his  own  state  possessed 
more  courage  than  strength,  he  persuaded 
other  nations  to  make  war,  openly,  by  order 
of  their  governments,  reserving  to  his  own 
people  the  part  of  effecting  their  purposes, 


THE  TREACHERY  OF  METTIUS. 


93 


by  treachery,  under  the  mask  of  allies.  The 
Fidenatians,  a  Roman  colony,  being  assured 
of  the  concurrence  of  the  Veientians,  and 
receiving  from  the  Albans  a  positive  engage- 
ment to  desert  to  their  side,  were  prevailed 
on  to  take  arms  and  declare  war.  Fidenae 
having  thus  openly  revolted,  Tullus,  after 
summoning  Mettius  and  his  army  from  Alba, 
marched  against  the  enemy,  and  passing  the 
Anio,  pitched  his  camp  at  the  conflux  of  the 
rivers.  Between  that  place,  and  Fidenae,  the 
Veientians  had  crossed  the  Tiber,  and,  in  the 
line  of  battle,  they  composed  the  right  wing 
near  the  river,  the  Fidenatians  being  posted 
on  the  left  towards  the  mountains.  Tullus 
drew  up  his  own  men  facing  the  Veientians, 
and  posted  the  Albans  opposite  to  the  troops 
of  the  Fidenatians.  The  Alban  had  not  more 
resolution  than  fidelity,  so  that,  not  daring 
either  to  keep  his  ground,  or  openly  to  de- 
sert, he  filed  otf  slowly  towards  the  moun- 
tains. When  he  thought  he  had  proceeded 
to  a  sufficient  distance,  he  ordered  the  whole 
line  to  halt,  and  being  still  irresolute,  in 
order  to  waste  dine,  he  employed  himself  in 
forming  the  ranks  :  his  scheme  was  to  join 
his  forces  to  whichever  of  the  parties  fortune 
should  favour  with  victory.  At  first,  the 
Romans  who  stood  nearest  were  astonished 
at  finding  their  flank  left  uncovered,  by  the 
departure  of  their  allies,  and,  in  a  short  time, 
a  horseman  at  full  speed  brought  an  account 
to  the  King  that  the  Albans  were  retreating. 
Tullus,  in  this  perilous  juncture,  vowed  to 
institute  twelve  new  Salian  priests,  and  also 
to  build  temples  to  Paleness  and  Terror ; 
then,  rebuking  the  horseman  with  a  loud 
voice,  that  the  enemy  might  hear,  he  ordered 
him  to  return  to  the  fight,  telling  him,  that 
• '  there  was  no  occasion  for  any  uneasiness  ; 
that  it  was  by  his  order  the  Alban  army  was 
wheeling  round,  in  order  to  fall  upon  the  un- 
protected rear  of  the  Fidenatians."  He  com- 
manded him,  also,  to  order  the  cavalry  to 
raise  their  spears  aloft ;  and,  this  being  per- 
formed, intercepted,  from  a  great  part  of  the 
infantry,  the  view  of  the  Alban  army  retreat- 
ing ;  while  those  who  did  see  them,  believing 
what  the  King  had  said,  fought  with  the 
greater  spirit.  The  fright  was  now  trans- 
ferred to  the  enemy,  for  they  had  heard  what 
the  King  had  spoken  aloud,  and  many  of  the 
Fidenatians  understood  the  Latine  tongue,  as 
having  been  intermixed  with  Romans  in  the 
colony.  Wherefore,  dreading  lest  the  Albans 
might  run  down  suddenly  from  the  hills,  and 
cut  off  their  retreat  to  the  town,  they  betook 
themselves  to  flight.  Tullus  pressed  them 
close,  and  after  routing  this  wing  composed 
of  the  Fidenatians,  turned  back  with  double 
fury  against  the  Veientians,  now  disheartened 


by  the  dismay  of  the  other  wing.  Neither 
could  they  withstand  his  attack,  and  the 
river  intercepting  them  behind,  prevented  a 
precipitate  flight.  As  soon  as  they  reached 
this,  in  their  retreat,  some,  shamefully  throw- 
ing away  their  arms,  plunged  desperately 
into  the  water,  and  the  rest,  hesitating  on 
the  bank,  irresolute  whether  to  fight  or  fly, 
were  overpowered  and  cut  off.  Never  before 
had  the  Romans  been  engaged  in  so  desperate 
an  action. 

When  all  was  over,  the  Alban  troops,  who 
had  been  spectators  of  the  engagement, 
marched  down  into  the  plain,  and  Mettius 
congratulated  Tullus  on  his  victory  over  the 
enemy.  Tullus  answered  him,  without  shew- 
ing any  sign  of  displeasure,  and  gave  orders 
that  the  Albans  should,  with  the  favour  of 
fortune,  join  their  camp  with  that  of  the 
Romans,  and  appointed  a  sacrifice  of  purifi- 
cation to  be  performed  next  day.  As  soon  as 
it  was  light,  all  things  being  prepared  in  the 
usual  manner,  he  commanded  both  armies  to 
be  summoned  to  an  assembly.  The  heralds, 
beginning  at  the  outside,  summoned  the  Al- 
bans first ;  and  they,  struck  with  the  novelty 
of  the  affair,  and  wishing  to  hear  the  Roman 
king  delivering  a  speech,  took  their  places 
nearest  to  him :  the  Roman  troops,  under 
arms,  pursuant  to  directions  previously  given, 
formed  a  circle  round  them,  and  a  charge 
was  given  to  the  centurions  to  execute  with- 
out delay  such  orders  as  they  should  receive. 
Then  Tullus  began  in  this  manner;  "  If  ever, 
Romans,  there  has  hitherto  occurred,  at  any 
time,  or  in  any  war,  an  occasion  that  called 
on  you  to  return  thanks,  first,  to  the  im- 
mortal gods,  and,  next,  to  your  own  valour, 
it  was  the  battle  of  yesterday  :  for  ye  had  to 
struggle  not  only  with  your  enemies,  but, 
what  is  a  more  difficult  and  dangerous  strug- 
gle, with  the  treachery  and  perfidy  of  your 
allies  :  for  I  will  now  undeceive  you ;  it  was 
not  by  my  order  that  the  Albans  withdrew  to 
the  mountains,  nor  was  what  ye  heard  me 
say,  the  issuing  of  orders,  but  a  stratagem, 
and  a  pretext  of  having  given  orders,  to  the 
end  that  while  ye  were  kept  in  ignorance  of 
your  being  deserted,  your  attention  might  not 
be  drawn  away  from  the  fight ;  and  that,  at 
the  same  time,  the  enemy,  believing  them- 
selves to  be  surrounded  on  the  rear,  might 
be  struck  with  terror  and  dismay :  but  the 
guilt  which  I  am  exposing  to  you,  extends 
not  to  all  the  Albans :  they  followed  their 
leader,  as  ye  would  have  done,  had  I  chosen 
that  the  army  should  make  any  movement 
from  the  ground  which  it  occupied.  Mettius 
there  was  the  leader  of  that  march,  the  same 
Mettius  was  the  schemer  of  this  war.  Met- 
tius it  was  who  broke  the  league  between  the 


94 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 


Romans  and  Albans.  May  others  dare  to 
commit  like  crimes,  if  I  do  not  now  make  him 
a  conspicuous  example  to  all  mankind."  On 
this  the  centurions  in  arms  gathered  round 
Mettius,  and  the  King  proceeded  in  his  dis- 
course: "Albans,  be  the  measure  prosper- 
ous, fortunate,  and  happy  to  the  Roman  peo- 
ple, to  me,  and  to  you  ;  it  is  my  intention  to 
remove  the  entire  people  of  Alba  to  Rome,  to 
g;ve  to  the  commons  the  privileges  of  citizens, 
and  to  enroll  the  principal  inhabitants  amomg 
the  fathers,  to  form  of  the  whole  one  city, 
ore  republic.  As  the  state  of  Alba,  from 
being  one  people,  was  heretofore  divided  into 
two,  so  let  these  be  now  re-united."  On 
hearing  this,  the  Alban  youth  who  were  un- 
armed, and  surrounded  by  armed  troops, 
however  different  their  sentiments  were,  yet, 
being  all  restrained  by  the  same  apprehen- 
sions, kept  a  profound  silence.  Tullus  then 
said,  "  Mettius  Fuffetius,  if  you  were  capa- 
ble of  learning  to  preserve  faith,  and  a  regard 
to  treaties,  I  should  suffer  you  to  live,  and 
supply  you  with  instructions  ;  but  your  dis- 
position is  incurable :  let  your  punishment, 
thep,  teach  mankind  to  consider  those  things 
as  sacred,  which  you  have  dared  to  violate. 
As,  therefore,  you  lately  kept  your  mind 
divided  between  the  interest  of  the  Fidena- 
tiann  and  of  the  Romans,  so  shall  you  now 
have  your  body  divided  and  torn  in  pieces." 
Then  two  chariots  being  brought,  each  drawn 
by  four  horses,  he  tied  Mettius  extended  at 
full  length,  to  the  carriages  of  them,  and  the 
horses  being  driven  violently  in  different  di- 
rections, bore  away  on  each  carriage  part  of 
his  mangled  body,  with  the  limbs  which  were 
fastened  by  the  cords.  The  eyes  of  all  were 
turned  with  horror  from  this  shocking  spec- 
tacle. This  was  the  first,  and  the  last,  in- 
stance among  the  Romans,  of  any  punish- 
ment inflicted  without  regard  to  the  laws  of 
humanity.  In  every  other  case,  we  may 
justly  boast,  that  no  nation  in  the  world  has 
shewn  greater  mildness. 

LIVT. 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 
THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ,  an  American  painter  and 
poet,  born  in  Pennsylvania,  1822,  died  in  New  York, 
1872.  Many  volumes  of  his  poems  have  appeared  from 
1847  to  1807,  and  he  edited  in  1848  a  collection  of  the 
"  Female  Poets  of  America." 

Within  the  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees, 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air; 

Like  some  binned  reaper,  in  his  hour  of  ease, 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 


The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy  hills, 
O'er  the  dun  waters  widening  in  the  vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds  subdued, 
The  hills  seemed  further  and  the  stream  gang  low, 

As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  with  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue, 

Now  stood  like  some  sad,  beaten  host  of  old, 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 

On  somber  wings  the  vulture  tried  his  flight ; 

The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate's  complaint ; 
And,  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 

The  village  church  vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hillside  crew, — 
Crew  thrice, — and  all  was  stiller  than  before  ; 

Silent,  till  some  replying  warden  blew 
His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jny,  within  the  elm's  tall  crest, 
Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  unfledged  young ; 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest, 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung , 

Where  sang  the  noisy  martins  of  the  eves, 
The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near, — 

Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 
An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous  year; 

Where  every  bird  that  waked  the  vernal  feast 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  morn, 

To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east ; — 
All  now  was  sunless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 

Alone,  from  out  the  stubble,  piped  the  quail ; 

And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the  dreary  gloom; 
Alone,  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 

Made  echo  in  the  distance  to  the  cottage-loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers ; 

The  spiders  moved  their  thin  shrouds  night  by  night 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by, — passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this — in  this  most  dreary  air, 
And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  year  stood  there, 
Firing  the  floor  with  its  inverted  torch, — 

Amid  all  this,  the  center  of  the  scene, 

The  white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tread, 
Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien 

Sat  like  a  fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

She  had  known  Sorrow.     He  had  walked  with  her, 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  with  her  the  ashen  crust, 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  thick  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  THE  EMPEROR  OTHO. 


95 


While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned  and  she  gave  her  all ; 

And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume,— 
Ke-gave  the  sword  to  rust  upon  the  wall. 

He-gave  the  sword,  but  not  tho  hand  that  drew 

And  struck  for  liberty  the  dying  blow  ; 
Kor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 

Fell  mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 
Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 
Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous  tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped, — her  head  was  bowed ; 

Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  her  hands  serene ; 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful  shroud, 

While  death  and  winter  closed  the  autumn  scene. 


THE   LAST  DAYS   OF   THE  EMPEROR 
OTHO. 

C.  CORNELIUS  TACITCS,  the  great  Roman  historian, 
whose  birth  is  of  uncertain  date,  wrote  in  the  first  cen- 
tury of  the  Christian  era.  Ho  acquired  great  reputa- 
tion both  as  un  orator  and  as  an  author.  His  "  Agri- 
cola  "  is  a  charming  biography  of  his  father-in-law. 
His  "  Manners  of  the  Germans,"  "  History  "  and  "  An- 
nals "  constitute  his  other  works,  all  of  which  evince  a 
powerful  mind,  and  a  skill  in  condensation  sufficiently 
rare  among  historians  ancient  or  modern. 

Otho,  in  the  mean  time  having  taken  his 
resolution,  waited,  without  trepidation,  for 
an  account  of  the  event.  First,  rumors  of  a 
melancholy  character  reached  his  ears ;  soon 
after,  fugitives,  who  escaped  from  the  field, 
brought  sure  intelligence  that  all  was  lost. 
The  fervor  of  the  soldiers  staid  not  for  the 
voice  of  the  emperor;  they  bade  him  sum- 
mon up  his  best  resolution  :  there  were  forces 
still  in  reserve,  and  in  their  prince's  cause 
they  were  ready  to  suffer  and  dare  the  ut- 
most. Nor  was  this  the  language  of  flattery  : 
impelled  by  a  kind  of  frenzy  and  like  men 
possessed,  they  were  all  on  fire  to  go  to  the 
field  and  restore  the  state  of  their  party. 
The  men  who  stood  at  a  distance  stretched 
forth  their  hands  in  token  of  their  assent, 
while  such  as  gathered  round  the  prince 
clasped  his  knees  ;  Plotius  Firmus  being  the 
most  zealous.  This  officer  commanded  the 
praetorian  guards.  He  implored  his  master 
not  to  abandon  an  army  devoted  to  his  inter- 
est ;  a  soldiery  who  had  undergone  so  much 
in  his  cause.  "  It  was  more  magnanimous," 
they  said,  "  to  bear  up  against  adversity, 


than  to  shrink  from  it ;  the  brave  and  stren- 
uous sustained  themselves  upon  hope,  even 
against  the  current  of  fortune,  the  timorous 
and  abject  only  allowed  their  fears  to  plunge 
them  into  despair."  While  uttering  these 
words,  accordingly  as  Otho  relaxed  or  stiff- 
ened the  muscles  of  his  face,  they  shouted  or 
groaned.  Nor  was  this  spirit  confined  to  the 
praetorians,  the  peculiar  soldiers  of  Othc  ; 
the  detachment  sent  forward  by  the  Moesian 
legions  brought  word  that  the  same  zeal  per- 
vaded the  coming  army,  and  that  the  legions 
had  entered  Aquileia.  Whence  it  is  evident 
that  a  fierce  and  bloody  war,  the  issue  of 
which  could  not  have  been  foreseen  by  the 
victors  or  the  vanquished,  might  have  been 
still  carried  on. 

Otho  himself  was  averse  to  any  plans  of 
prosecuting  the  war,  and  said:  "To  expose 
to  further  perils  such  spirit  and  such  virtue 
as  you  now  display,  would,  I  deem,  be  pay- 
ing too  costly  a  price  for  my  life.  The  more 
brilliant  the  prospects  which  you  hold  out  to 
me,  were  I  disposed  to  live,  the  more  glorious 
will  be  my  death.  I  and  Fortune  have  made 
trial  of  each  other;  for  what  length  of  time 
is  not  material ;  but  the  felicity  which  does 
not  promise  to  last,  it  is  more  difficult  to  en- 
joy with  moderation.  Vitellius  began  the 
civil  war ;  and  he  originated  our  contest  for 
the  princedom.  It  shall  be  mine  to  estab- 
lish a  precedent  by  preventing  a  second 
battle  for  it.  By  this  let  posterity  judge  of 
Otho.  Vitellius  shall  be  blest  with  his  broth- 
er, his  wife,  and  children.  I  want  no  revenge, 
nor  consolations.  Others  have  held  the  sov- 
ereign power  longer  ;  none  have  resigned  it 
with  equal  fortitude.  Shall  I  again  suffer  so 
many  of  the  Roman  youth,  so  many  gallant 
armies,  to  be  laid  low,  and  cut  off  from  the 
commonwealth?  Let  this  resolution  of  yours 
to  die  for  me,  should  it  be  necessary,  attend 
me  in  my  departure ;  but  live  on  yourselves. 
Neither  let  me  long  obstruct  your  safety,  nor 
do  you  retard  the  proof  of  my  constancy.  To 
descant  largely  upon  our  last  moments  is 
the  act  of  a  dastard  spirit.  Hold  it  as  an 
eminent  proof  of  the  fixedness  of  my  pur- 
pose, that  I  complain  of  no  man :  for  to  ar- 
raign gods  or  men,  is  the  part  of  one  who 
fain  would  live." 

Having  thus  declared  his  sentiments,  he 
talked  with  his  friends,  addressing  each  in 
courteous  terms,  according  to  his  rank,  his 
age,  or  dignity,  and  endeavored  to  induce  all, 
the  young  in  an  authoritative  tone,  the  old 
by  entreaties,  to  depart  without  loss  of  time, 
and  not  aggravate  the  resentment  of  the 
conquerors  by  remaining  with  him.  His 
countenance  serene,  his  voice  firm,  and  en- 
deavoring to  repress  the  tears  of  his  friends 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  ALL  IN  GREY. 


as  uncalled-for,  he  ordered  boats  or  carriages 
for  those  who  were  willing  to  depart.  Papers 
and  letters,  containing  strong  expressions  of 
duty  toward  himself,  or  ill-will  toward  Vitel- 
lius,  he  committed  to  the  flames.  He  distri- 
buted money  in  presents,  but  not  with  the 
profusion  of  a  man  quitting  the  world.  Then, 
observing  his  brother's  son,  Salvius  Coccei- 
anus,  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  and  distressed 
and  weeping,  he  even  comforted  him,  com- 
mending his  duty,  but  rebuking  his  fears : 
"Could  it  be  supposed  that  Vitellius,  finding 
his  own  family  safe,  would  refuse,  inhuman- 
ly, to  return  the  generosity  shown  to  him- 
self? By  hastening  his  death,"  he  said, 
"he  should  establish  a  claim  upon  his  clem- 
ency ;  since,  not  in  the  extremity  of  despair, 
but  at  a  time  when  the  army  was  clamor- 
ing for  another  battle,  he  had  made  his  death 
an  offering  to  his  country.  For  himself,  he 
had  gained  ample  renown,  and  left  to  his 
family  enough  of  lustre.  After  the  Julian 
race,  the  Claudian,  and  the  Servian,  he  was 
the  first  who  carried  the  sovereignty  into  a 
new  family.  Wherefore  he  should  cling  to 
life  with  lofty  aspirations,  and  neither  forget 
at  any  time  that  Otho  was  his  uncle,  nor  re- 
member it  overmuch." 

After  this,  his  friends  having  all  with- 
drawn, he  reposed  awhile.  When  lo  !  while 
his  mind  was  occupied  with  the  last  act  of 
his  life,  he  was  diverted  from  his  purpose  by 
a  sudden  uproar.  The  soldiers,  he  was  told, 
were  in  a  state  of  frenzy  and  riot,  threaten- 
ing destruction  to  all  who  offered  to  depart, 
and  directing  their  fury  particularly  against 
Verginius,  whom  they  kept  besieged  in  his 
house,  which  he  had  barricaded.  Having 
reproved  the  authors  of  the  disturbance,  he 
returned,  and  devoted  himself  to  bidding 
adieu  to  those  who  were  going  away,  until 
they  had  all  departed  in  security.  Toward 
the  close  of  day  he  quenched  his  thirst  with 
a  draught  of  cold  water,  and  then  ordered 
two  poniards  to  be  brought  to  him.  He 
tried  the  points  of  both,  and  laid  one  under 
his  head.  Having  ascertained  that  his  friends 
were  safe  on  their  way,  he  passed  the  night 
in  quidt,  and,  as  we  are  assured,  even  slept. 
At  the  dawn  of  day  he  applied  the  weapon 
to  his  breast,  and  fell  upon  it.  On  hearing 
his  dying  groans,  his  freedmen  and  slaves, 
and  with  them  Flotius  Firmus,  the  praetor- 
ian prajfect,  found  that  with  one  wound  he 
had  dispatched  himself.  His  funeral  obse- 
quies were  performed  without  delay.  This 
had  been  his  earnest  request,  lest  his  head 
should  be  cut  off  and  be  made  a  public  spec- 
tacle. He  was  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
praetorian  soldiers,  who  kissed  his  hands  and 
his  wounds,  amidst  tears  and  praises.  Some 


of  the  soldiers  slew  themselves  at  the  funeral 
pile :  not  from  any  consciousness  of  guilt, 
nor  from  fear ;  but  in  emulation  of  the 
bright  example  of  their  prince,  and  to  show 
their  affection.  At  Bedriacum,  Placentia, 
and  other  camps,  numbers  of  every  rank 
adopted  that  mode  of  death.  A  sepulchre 
was  raised  to  the  memory  of  Otho,  of  ordi- 
nary structure,  but  likely  to  endure. 

Such  was  the  end  of  Otho,  in  the  thirty- 
seventh  year  of  his  age.  He  was  born  in  the 
municipal  city  of  Ferentum.  His  father  was 
of  consular  rank  ;  his  grandfather  of  praetor- 
ian. By  the  maternal  line  his  descent  was 
respectable,  though  not  equally  illustrious. 
The  features  of  his  character,  as  well  in  his 
earliest  days  as  in  the  progress  of  his  youth, 
have  been  already  delineated.  By  two  ac- 
tions, one  atrocious  and  detestable,  the  other 
great  and  magnanimous,  he  earned  an  equal 
degree  of  honor  and  infamy  among  pos- 
terity. 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  ALL  IN  GREY. 

JEAN  PIEBBE  DE  BEEANOER,  a  French  lyric  poet,  born 
1790,  died  1857,  was  one  of  the  most  widely  popular  of 
Trench  writers.  An  ardent  Republican,  his  political 
verses  brought  him  fine  and  imprisonment,  but  his  in- 
dependence resisted  alike  persecution  and  blandishments. 
The  light  spirit,  gayety  and  bonhommie  of  his  poems  pro- 
duce the  happiest  effects  by  the  most  simple  and  inimit- 
able touches. 

In  Paris  a  queer  little  man  you  may  see, 

A  little  man  all  in  grey ; 
Kosy  and  round  as  an  apple  is  he, 
Content  with  the  present,  whate'er  it  may  be, 
While  from  care  and  from  cash  he  is  equally  free, 

And  merry  both  night  and  day ! 
"  Mafoi  I    I  laugh  at  the  world,"  says  he,— 
"  I  laugh  at  the  world,  and  the  world  laughs  at  me ! " 
What  a  gay  little  man  in  grey  ! 

He  runs  after  the  girls,  like  a  great  many  more, 

This  little  man  all  in  grey ; 
He  sings,  falls  in  love  and  in  debt  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  drinks  without  wasting  a  thought  on  the  score ; 
And  then  in  the  face  of  a  dun  shuts  his  door, 

Or  keeps  out  of  the  bailiff's  way. 
"  Mafoi  I    I  laugh  at  the  world,"  says  he, — 
"  I  laugh  at  the  world,  and  the  world  laughs  at  mo ! " 
What  a  gay  little  man  in  grey ! 

When  the  rain  comes  in  through  the  broken  panes, 

This  little  man  all  in  grey 
Goes  to  bed  content,  and  never  complains, 
And,  though  winter  be  chilling  the  blood  in  his  reins 


WILD  NATURE  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 


97 


Blows  his  fro?t-bitten  fingers,  and  merrily  feigns 

JS'ot  to  care  for  a  lire  to-day  I 
*  JlTa/oi .'     I  laugh  at  the  world,"  says  he, — 
"  I  laugh  at  the  world,  and  the  world  laughs  at  me  !  " 

What  a  gay  little  man  iu  grey  ! 

The  prettiest  wife  one  need  wish  to  possess 

Has  this  little  man  all  in  grey ; 
But  the  world  will  talk  and  I  must  confess 
That  her  exquisite  taste  and  her  elegant  dress 
Leads  others  to  wonder— perhaps  to  guess 

That  her  lovers  perchance  may  pay. 
Still  her  husband  looks  on.     "  Ma  foi  !  "  says  he,— 
"  I  laugh  at  the  world,  and  the  world  laughs  at  me  ! " 

\Vhat  a  gay  little  man  in  grey  ! 

Now  racked  by  the  gout  on  his  comfortless  bed 

Lies  this  little  man  all  in  grey ; 
And  the  priest,  with  his  book  and  his  shaven  head, 
Comes  and  talks  of  the  devil,  the  grave,  and  the  dead, 
Till  the  sick  man's  patience  is  wholly  fled, 

And  he  frightens  the  priest  away  ! 
"  Ma  foi  I    I  laugh  at  the  devil,"  says  he, — 
"  I  laugh  at  the  world,  and  the  world  laughs  at  me ! " 
What  a  gay  little  man  in  grey ! 

TRANSLATED  BY  AMELIA  B.  EDWARDS. 


A  PICTURE  OF  WILD   NATURE  ON   THE 
MISSISSIPPI. 

FRANCOIS  AUOUSTE  DE  CHATEAUBRIAND,  a  distin- 
guished French  writer,  born  1709,  died  1848.  He  visited 
the  United  States  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  and  from 
tlie  primeval  forests  of  the  south  was  drawn  the  inspira- 
tion of  some  of  his  most  romantic  works.  His  "  Alula" 
(1801),  "  Genius  of  Christiinltij"  (1802),  "  The  Martyrs" 
(180'J),  and  "  Journey  from  Paris  to  Jerusalem,"  (1811), 
are  the  most  valuable  of  his  voluminous  works.  His 
style  is  highly  poetical,  and  his  descriptions  of  natural 
scenery  are  eminently  fine. 

France  formerly  possessed  in  North  Ame- 
rica a  vast  empire,  extending  from  Labrador 
to  the  Floridas,  and  from  the  shores  of  the 
Atlantic  to  the  most  distant  lakes  of  Upper 
Canada. 

Four  great  rivers,  deriving  their  sources 
from  the  same  mountains,  divided  these  im- 
mense regions:  the  River  St.  Lawrence, 
which  is  lost  to  the  east  in  the  gulf  of  that 
name;  the  Western  River,  whose  waters  flow 
on  to  seas  then  unknown  ;  the  river  Bourbon, 
which  runs  from  south  to  north  into  Hudson 
Bay;  and  the  Mississippi,  whose  waters  fall 
from  north  to  south  into  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 

The  last-named  river,  in  its  course  of  more 
than  a  thousand  leagues,  waters  a  delicious 
country  called  by  the  inhabitants  of  the 
United  States  the  New  Eden,  to  which  the 

VOL.  T. 


French  left  the  pretty  appellation  of  Louisi- 
ana. A  thousand  other  rivers  tributaries  of 
the  Mississippi,  the  Missouri,  the  Illinois,  the 
Arkansas,  the  Wabache,  the  Tennessee — en- 
rich it  with  their  mud  and  fertilize  it  with 
their  waters.  When  all  these  rivers  have 
been  swollen  by  the  deluges  of  winter,  up- 
rooted trees,  forming  large  portions  of  forests 
torn  down  by  tempests,  crowd  about  their 
sources.  In  a  short  time  the  mud  cements 
the  torn  tree  together,  and  they  become  in- 
chained  by  creepers'  which,  taking  root  in 
every  direction,  bind  and  consolidate  the  de- 
bris. Carried  away  by  the  foaming  waves, 
the  rafts  descend  to  the  Mississippi ;  which, 
taking  possession  of  them,  hurries  them  down 
towards  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  throws  them 
upon  sand-banks,  and  so  increases  the  num- 
ber of  its  mouths.  At  intervals  the  swollen 
river  raises  its  voice  whilst  passing  over  the 
resisting  heaps,  and  spreads  its  overflowing 
waters  around  the  colonnades  of  the  forests, 
and  the  pyramids  of  the  Indian  tombs  ;  and 
so  the  Mississippi  is  the  Nile  of  these  deserts. 
But  grace  is  always  united  to  splendor  in 
scenes  of  nature  :  while  the  midstream  bears 
away  towards  the  sea  the  dead  trunks  of 
pine-trees  and  oaks,  the  lateral  currents  on 
either  side  convey  along  the  shores  floating 
islands  of  pistias  and  nenuphars,  whose  yel- 
low roses  stand  out  like  little  pavilions. 
Green  serpents,  blue  herons,  pink  flamingoes, 
and  baby  crocodiles  embark  as  passengers  on 
these  rafts  of  flowers ;  and  the  brilliant 
colony  unfolding  to  the  wind  its  golden  sails, 
giides  along  slumberingly  till  it  arrives  at 
some  retired  creek  in  the  river. 

The  two  shores  of  the  Mississippi  present 
the  most  extraordinary  picture.  On  the 
western  border  vast  savannahs  spread  away 
farther  than  the  eye  can  reach,  and  their 
waves  of  verdure,  as  they  recede,  appear  to 
rise  gradually  into  the  azure  sky,  where  they 
fade  away.  In  these  limitless  meadows  herds 
of  three  or  four  thousand  wild  buffaloes  wan- 
der at  random.  Sometimes  cleaving  the 
waters  as  it  swims,  a  bison,  laden  with  years, 
comes  to  repose  among  the  high  grass  on  an 
island  of  the  Mississippi,  its  forehead  orna- 
mented with  two  crescents,  and  it?  ancient 
and  slimy  beard  giving  it  the  appearance  of  a 
god  of  the  river,  throwing  an  eye  of  satisfac- 
tion upon  the  grandeur  of  its  waters,  and  the 
wild  abundance  of  its  shores. 

Such  is  the  scene  upon  the  western  border ; 
but  it  changes  on  the  opposite  side,  which 
forms  an  admirable  contrast  with  the  other 
shore.  Suspended  along  the  course  of  tht 
waters,  grouped  upon  the  rocks  and  upon  the 
mountains,  and  dispersed  in  the  valley^ 
trees  of  every  form,  of  every  colour,  and  of 

7 


98 


ON  OLD  AGE. 


every  perfume,  throng  and  grow  together, 
stretching  up  into  the  air  to  heights  that 
weary  the  eye  to  follow.  AVild  vines,  big- 
rionias,  coloquintidas,  intertwine  each  other 
at  the  feet  of  these  trees,  escalade  their 
trunks,  arid  creep  along  to  the  extremity  of 
their  branches,  stretching  from  the  maple  to 
the  tulip-tree,  from  the  tulip-tree  to  the 
holly-hock,  and  thus  forming  thousands  ot 
grottoes,  arches,  and  porticoes.  Often,  in 
their  wanderings  from  trees,  these  creepers 
cross  the  arm  of  a  river,  over  which  they 
throw  a  bridge  of  flowers.  Out  of  the  midst 
of  these  masses,  the  magnolia,  raising  its 
motionless  cone,  surmounted  by  large  white 
buds,  commands  all  the  forest,  where  it  has 
no  other  rival  than  the  palm-tree  which 
gently  waves,  close  by,  its  fans  of  verdure. 

A  multitude  of  animals,  placed  in  these  re- 
treats by  the  hand  of  the  Creator,  spread 
about  life  and  enchantment.  From  the  ex- 
tremities of  the  avenues  may  be  seen  bears, 
intoxicated  with  the  grape,  staggering  upon 
the  branches  of  the  elm-trees  ;  cariboos  bathe 
in  the  lake  ;  black  squirrels  play  among  the 
thick  foliage  ;  mocking-birds,  and  Virginian 
pigeons  not  bigger  than  sparrows  fly  down 
upon  the  turf  reddened  with  strawberries  ; 
green  parrots  with  yellow  heads,  purple 
woodpeckers,  cardinals  red  as  fire,  clamber 
up  to  the  very  tops  of  the  cypress-trees; 
humming-birds  sparkle  upon  the  jessamine  of 
the  Floridas  ;  and  bird-catching  serpents  hiss 
while  suspended  to  the  domes  of  the  woods, 
where  they  swing  about  like  the  creepers 
themselves. 

If  all  is  silence  and  repose  in  the  savannahs 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  all  here,  on  the 
contrary,  is  sound  and  motion,  peckirigs 
against  the  trunks  of  the  oaks,  frictions  of 
animals  walking  along  as  they  nibble  or 
crush  between  their  teeth  the  stones  of  fruits, 
the  roaring  of  the  waves,  plaintive  cries,  dull 
bellowings  and  mild  cooings,  fill  these  deserts 
with  tender,  yet  wild  harmony.  But  when  a 
breeze  happens  to  animate  these  solitudes,  to 
swing  these  floating  bodies,  to  confound  these 
masses  of  white,  blue,  green,  and  pink,  to 
mix  all  the  colours  and  to  combine  all  the 
murmurs,  there  issue  such  sounds  from  the 
depths  of  the  forests,  and  such  things  pass 
before  the  eyes,  that  I  should  in  vain  en- 
deavour to  describe  them  to  those  who  have 
never  visited  these  primitive  fields  of  nature. 


WINIFREDA. 

Away,  let  naught  to  love  displeasing, 
My  Winifreda,  move  your  care, 
Let  naught  delay  the  heavenly  blessing, 
Nor  squeamish  pride  nor  gloomy  fear. 


What  though  no  grants  of  royal  donors 
With  pompous  titles  grace  our  blood  ? 
We'll  shine  in  more  substantial  honors, 
And  to  be  noble  we'll  be  good. 

Our  name,  while  virtue  thus  we  tender, 
Will  sweetly  sound  where'er  'tis  spoke  , 
And  all  the  great  ones,  they  shall  wonder 
How  they  respect  such  little  folk. 

What  though  from  fortune's  lavish  bounty 
No  mighty  treasures  we  possess, 
We'll  find  within  our  pittance  plenty, 
And  be  content  without  excess. 

Still  shall  each  kind  returning  season 
Sufficient  for  our  wishes  give  ; 
1'or  we  will  live  a  life  of  reason, 
And  that's  the  only  life  to  live. 

Through  youth  and  age  in  love  excelling. 
We'll  hand  in  hand  together  tread  ; 
Sweet  smiling  peace  shall  crown  our  dwelling, 
And  babes,  sweet  smiling  babes,  our  bed. 

How  should  I  love  the  pretty  creatures, 
While  round  my  knees  they  fondly  clung ; 
To  see  them  look  their  mother's  features, 
To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother's  tongue. 

And  when  with  envy  time  transported, 
Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joys, 
You'll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 
And  I'll  go  wooing  in  my  boys. 

ANONYMOUS. 


ON  OLD  AGE. 

What,  therefore,  should  I  fear,  if  after 
death  I  am  sure  either  not  to  be  miserable  or 
to  be  happy  ?  Although  who  is  so  foolish, 
though  he  be  young,  as  to  be  assured  that  he 
will  live  even  till  the  evening?  Nay,  that 
period  of  life  has  many  more  probabilities  of 
death  than  ours  has  :  young  men  more  read- 
ily fall  into  disease,  sufier  more  severely,  are 
cured  with  more  difficulty,  and  therefore  few 
arrive  at  old  age.  Did  not  this  happen  so, 
we  should  live  better  and  more  wisely,  for  in- 
telligence, and  reflection,  and  judgment  re- 
side in  old  men,  and  if  there  had  been  none 
of  them,  no  states  could  exist  at  all.  But  I 
return  to  the  imminence  of  death.  What 
charge  is  that  against  old  age,  since  you  see 
it  to  be  common  to  youth  also  ?  I  experi- 
enced not  only  in  the  case  of  my  own  excel- 
lent son,  but  also  in  that  of  your  brothers, 
Scipio,  men  plainly  marked  out  for  the  high- 


ON  OLD  AGE. 


est  distinction,  that  death  was  common  to 
every  period  of  life.  Yet  a  young  man  hopes 
that  he  will  live  a  long  time,  which  expecta- 
tion an  old  man  cannot  entertain.  His  hope 
is  but  a  foolish  one :  for  what  man  can  be 
more  foolish  than  to  regard  uncertainties  as 
certainties,  delusions  as  truths  ?  An  old  man 
indeed  has  nothing  to  hope  for;  yet  he  is  in 
so  much  the  happier  state  than  a  young  one  ; 
since  he  has  already  attained  what  the  other 
is  only  hoping  for.  The  one  is  wishing  to 
live  long,  the  other  has  lived  long.  And  yet, 
good  gods  !  what  is  there  in  man's  life  that 
can  be  called  long?  For  allow  the  latest 
period  :  let  us  anticipate  the  age  of  the  kings 
of  the  Tartessii.  For  there  dwelt,  as  I  find 
it  recorded,  a  man  named  Arganthonius  at 
Gades,  who  reigned  for  eighty  years,  and 
lived  a  hundred  and  twenty.  But  to  my 
mini,  nothing  whatever  seems  of  long  dura- 
tion, in  which  there  is  any  end.  For  when 
that  arrives,  then  the  time  which  has  passed 
has  flowed  away  ;  that  only  remains  which 
you  have  secured  by  virtue  and  right  conduct. 
Hours  indeed  depart  from  us,  and  days  and 
years ;  nor  does  past  time  ever  return,  nor 
c  in  it  be  discovered  what  is  to  follow.  What- 
ever time  is  assigned  to  each  to  live,  with 
that  he  ought  to  be  content :  for  neither  need 
the  drama  be  performed  by  the  actor,  in 
order  to  give  satisfaction,  provided  he  be  ap- 
proved in  whatever  act  he  may  be  ;  nor  need 
the  wise  man  live  till  the  plaitdite.  For  the 
short  period  of  life  is  long  enough  for  living 
well  and  honorably ;  and  if  you  should  ad- 
vance further,  you  need  no  more  grieve  than 
farmers  do  when  the  loveliness  of  spring- 
time hath  past,  that  summer  and  autumn 
have  come.  For  spring  represents  the  time 
of  youth,  and  gives  promise  of  the  future 
fruits  :  the  remaining  seasons  are  intended 
for  plucking  and  gathering  in  those  fruits. 
Now  the  harvest  of  old  age,  as  I  have  often 
said,  is  the  recollection  and  abundance  of 
blessings  previously  secured.  In  truth  every- 
thing that  happens  agreeably  to  nature  is  to 
be  reckoned  among  blessings.  What,  how- 
ever, is  so  agree  ible  to  nature  as  for  an  old 
man  to  die?  which  even  is  the  lot  of  the 
young,  though  nature  opposes  and  resists. 
And  thus  it  is  that  young  men  seem  to  me  to 
die,  just  a^  when  the  violence  of  flame  is  ex- 
tinguished by  a  flood  of  water ;  whereas  old 
nnn  die,  as  the  exhausted  fire  goes  out,  spon- 
taneously, without  the  exertion  of  any  force : 
and  as  fruits  when  they  are  green  are  plucked 
by  force  from  the  trees,  but  when  ripe  and 
mellow  drop  off",  so  violence  takes  away  their 
lives  from  youths,  maturity  from  old  men ; 
a  state  which  to  me  indeed  is  so  delightful, 
that  the  nearer  I  approach  to  death,  I  seem 


as  it  were  to  be  getting  sight  of  l»nd,  and  at 
length,  after  a  long  voyage,  to  be  just  coming 
into  harbor. 

Of  all  the  periods  of  life  there  is  a  definite 
limit,  but  of  old  age  there  is  no  limit  fixed  ; 
and  life  goes  on  very  well  in  11,  so  long  as 
you  are  able  to  follow  up  and  attend  to  the 
duty  of  your  situation,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
to  care  nothing  about  death  ;  whence  it  hap- 
pens that  old  age  is  even  of  higher  spirit  and 
bolder  than  youth.  Agreeable  to  this  was 
the  answer  given  to  Pisistratus,  the  tyrant, 
by  Solon  ;  when  on  the  former  iiMjdiring  "  in 
reliance  on  what  hope  he  so  boldly  withstood 
him,"  the  latter  is  said  to  have  answered, 
"old  age."  The  happiest  end  of  life  is  this— 
when  the  mind  and  the  other  senses  being 
unimpaired,  the  same  nature,  wnieh  put  it 
together,  takes  asunder  her  own  work.  As 
in  the  case  of  a  ship  or  a  house,  he  who  built 
them  takes  them  down  most  easily ;  so  the 
same  nature  which  has  compacted  man,  most 
easily  breaks  him  up.  Besides,  every  fasten- 
ing of  glue,  when  fresh,  is  with  difficulty 
torn  asunder,  but  easily  when  tried  by  time. 
Hence  it  is  that  that  short  remnant  of  life 
should  be  neither  greedily  coveted,  nor  without 
reason  given  up :  and  Pythagoras  forbids  us 
to  abandon  the  station  or  post  of  life  without 
the  orders  of  our  commander,  that  is  of  God. 
There  is,  indeed,  a  saying  of  the  wise  Solon, 
in  which  he  declares  that  he  does  not  wish  his 
own  death  to  be  unattended  by  the  grief  and 
lamentation  of  friends.  He  wishes,  I  sup- 
pose, that  he  should  be  dear  to  his  friends. 
But  I  know  not  whether  Ennius  does  not  say 
with  more  propriety:  "Let  no  one  pay  me 
honor  with  tears  nor  celebrate  my  funeral 
with  mourning." 

He  conceives  that  a  death  ought  not  to  be 
lamented  which  an  immortality  follows.  Be- 
sides, a  dying  man  may  have  some  degree  of 
consciousness,  but  that  for  a  short  time,  es- 
pecially, in  the  case  of  an  old  man, 
after  death,  indeed,  consciousness  eith- 
er does  not  exist,  or  it  is  a  thing  to  be  de- 
sired. But  this  ought  to  be  a  subject  of  study 
from  our  youth  to  be  indifferent  about  death ; 
without  which  study  no  one  can  be  of  tran- 
quil mind.  For  die  we  certainly  must,  and 
it  is  uncertain  whether  or  not  on  this  very 
day.  He,  therefore,  who  at  all  hours  dreads 
impending  death,  how  can  he  be  at  peace  in 
his  mind?  Concerning  which  there  seems  to 
be  no  need  of  such  long  discussion,  when  I 
call  to  mind  net  only  Lucius  Brutus,  who  was 
slain  in  liberating  his  country ;  nor  the  two 
Decii,  who  spurred  on  their  steeds  to  a  vol- 
untary death;  nor  Marcus  Atilius,  who  set 
out  to  execution,  that  he  might  keep  a  prom- 
ise pledged  to  the  *nemy ;  nor  the  two  Scipios, 


100 


THE  BILL  OF  MORTALITY. 


who  even  with  their  very  bodies  sought  to 
obstruct  the  inarch  of  the  Carthaginians ;  nor 
your  grandfather  Lucius  Paulus,  who  by  his 
death  atoned  for  the  temerity  of  his  colleague 
in  the  disgraceful  defeat  at  Carince ;  nor  Mar- 
cus Marcellus,  whose  corpse  not  even  the 
most  merciless  foe  suffered  to  go  without  the 
honor  of  sepulture ;  but  that  our  legions,  as 
1  have  remarked  in  my  Antiquities,  have  of- 
ten gone  with  cheerful  and  undaunted  mind 
to  that  place,  from  which  they  believed  that 
they  should  never  return.  Shall,  then,  well- 
instructed  old  men  be  afraid  of  that  which 
young  men,  and  they  not  only  ignorant,  but 
mere  peasants,  despise?  On  the  whole,  as  it 
seems  to  me  indeed,  a  satiety  of  all  pursuits 
causes  a  satiety  of  life.  There  are  pursuits 
peculiar  to  boyhood;  do  therefore  young 
men  regret  the  loss  of  them?  There  are 
also  some  of  early  youth ;  does  that  now  set- 
tled age,  which  is  called  middle  life,  seek  af- 
ter these  ?  There  are  also  some  of  this  period ; 
neither  are  they  looked  for  by  old  age.  There 
are  some  final  pursuits  of  old  age;  accord- 
ingly, as  the  pursuits  of  the  earlier  parts  of 
life  fall  into  disuse  so  also  do  those  of  old 
age;  and  when  this  has  taken  place,  satiety 
of  life  brings  on  the  seasonable  period  of 
death. 

Indeed  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  not  ven- 
ture to  tell  you  what  I  myself  think  concern- 
ing death,  because  I  fancy  I  see  it  so  much 
the  more  clearly,  in  proportion  as  I  am  less 
distant  from  it.  I  am  persuaded  that  your 
fathers,  Publius  Scipio  and  Caius  Lselius, 
men  of  the  greatest  eminence  and  very  dear 
friends  of  mine,  are  living;  and  that  life  too 
which  alone  deserves  the  name  of  life.  For 
whilst  we  are  shut  up  in  this  prison  of  the 
body  we  are  fulfilling  as  it  were  the  func- 
tion and  painful  task  of  destiny,  for  the 
heaven-born  soul  has  been  degraded  from  its 
dwelling-place  above,  and  as  it  were  buried 
in  the  earth,  a  situation  uncongenial  to  its  di- 
vine and  immortal  nature.  But  I  believe  that 
the  immortal  gods  have  shed  souls  into  hu- 
man bodies,  that  beings  might  exist  who 
might  tend  the  earth,  and  by  contemplating 
the  order  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  might  imi- 
tate it  in  the  manner  and  regularity  of  lives. 
Nor  have  reason  and  argument  alone  influ- 
enced me  thus  to  believe,  but  likewise  the 
high  name  and  authority  of  the  greatest  phi- 
losophers. I  used  to  hear  that  Pythagoras 
and  the  Pythagoreans,  who  were  all  but  our 
neighbors,  who  were  formerly  called  the  Ital- 
ian philosophers,  had  no  doubt  that  we  pos- 
sess souls  derived  from  the  universal  divine 
mind.  Moreover,  the  arguments  were  con- 
clusive to  me,  which  Socrates  delivered  on  the 
last  day  of  his  life  concerning  the  immortality 


of  the  soul, — he  who  was  pronounced  by  the 
oracle  of  Apollo  the  wisest  of  all  men.  But 
why  say  more?  I  have  thus  persuaded  my- 
self, such  is  my  belief:  that  since  such  is  the 
activity  of  our  souls,  so  tenacious  their  mem- 
ory of  things  past,  and  their  sagacity  regard- 
ing things  future — so  many  arts,  so  many 
sciences,  so  many  discoveries,  that  the  na- 
ture which  comprises  these  qualities  cannot 
be  mortal ;  and  since  the  mind  is  ever  in  ac- 
tion and  has  no  source  of  motion,  because  it 
moves  itself,  I  believe  that  it  never  will  find 
any  end  of  motion,  because  it  never  will  part 
from  itself;  and  since  the  nature  of  the  soul 
is  uncompounded,  and  has  not  in  itself  any 
admixture  heterogeneous  and  dissimilar  to 
itself,  I  maintain  that  it  cannot  undergo  dis- 
solution ;  and  if  this  be  not  possible,  it  can- 
not perish :  and  it  is  a  strong  argument,  that 
men  know  very  many  things  before  they  are 
born,  since  when  mere  boys,  while  they  are 
learning  difficult  subjects,  they  so  quickly 
catch  up  numberless  ideas,  that  they  seem  not 
to  be  learning  them  then  for  the  first  time, 
but  to  remember  them,  and  to  be  calling  them 
to  recollection.  Thus  did  our  Plato  argue. 

CICEBO. 


THE  BILL  OF  MORTALITY. 

Pallida  Mors  cequo  pulsat  pede  pauperum  tabernas, 
Regumque  turres.  Hor,ice 

Pale  Death  with  equal  foot  strikes  wide  the  door 
Of  royal  halls  and  hovels  of  the  poor. 

While  thirteen  moons  saw  smoothly  ran 

The  Neu's  barge-laden  wave, 
All  these,  life's  rambling  journey  done, 

Have  found  their  home,  the  grave. 

Was  man  (frail  always)  made  more  frail 

Than  in  foregoing  years? 
Did  famine  or  did  plague  prevail, 

That  so  much  death  appears  ? 

Ko;  these  were  vigorous  as  their  j.r.v,, 

Nor  plague  nor  famine  came ; 
This  annual  tribute  Death  requiies, 

And  never  waives  his  claim. 

Like  crowded  forest-trees  we  star,  i, 

Anu  some  are  mark'd  to  fall ; 
The  axe  will  smite  at  God's  comma  ad. 

And  soon  shall  smite  us  all. 

Green  as  the  bay  tree,  ever  green. 

With  its  new  foliage  on, 
The  say,  the  thoughtless,  have  I  *eon 

I  pass'd — and  they  were  gone. 


THE  DREAM. 


1U1 


Bead,  ye  that  run,  the  awful  truth 

With  which  I  charge  my  page  I 
A  worm  is  in  the  bud  of  youth, 

And  at  the  root  of  age. 

No  present  health  can  health  insure 

For  yet  an  hour  to  come ; 
No  medicine,  though  it  oft  can  cure, 

(Jan  always  balk  the  tomb. 

And  oh !  that  humble  as  my  lot, 

And  scorn'd  as  is  my  strain, 
These  truths,  though  known,  too  much  forgot, 

I  may  not  teach  in  vain. 

WM.  COWPER. 


"THE   LOST    AND   DELICIOUS  LEISURE 
OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME." 

FROM  "ADAM  BEDE." 

Surely  all  other  leisure  is  hurry  compared 
with  a  sunny  walk  through  the  fields  from 
afternoon  church — as  such  walks  used  to 
be  in  those  old  leisurely  times,  when  the  boat, 
gliding  sleepily  along  the  canal,  was  the 
newest  locomotive  wonder ;  when  Sunday 
books  had  most  of  them  old  brown  leather 
covers,  and  opened  with  remarkable  precision 
always  in  one  place.  Leisure  is  gone — gone 
where  the  spinning-wheels  are  gone,  and  the 
pack-horses,  and  the  slow  wagons,  and  the 
peddlers  who  brought  bargains  to  the  door 
on  sunny  afternoons.  Ingenious  philoso- 
phers tell  you,  perhaps,  that  the  great  work 
of  the  steam-engine  is  to  create  leisure  for 
mankind.  Do  not  believe  them  ;  it  only  cre- 
ates a  vacuum  for  eager  thought  to  rush  in. 
Even  idleness  is  eager  now — eager  for  amuse- 
ment ;  prone  to  excursion-trains,  art  mu- 
seums, periodical  literature,  and  exciting 
novels ;  prone  even  to  scientific  theorizing, 
and  cursory  peeps  through  microscopes.  Old 
Leisure  was  quite  a  different  personage ;  he 
only  read  one  newspaper,  innocent  of  leaders, 
and  was  free  from  that  periodicity  of  sensa- 
tions which  we  call  post-time.  He  was  a 
contemplative,  rather  stout  gentleman,  of  ex- 
cellent digestion — of  quiet  perceptions,  undis- 
eased  by  hypothesis,  happy  in  his  inability 
to  know  the  causes  of  things,  preferring  the 
things  themselves.  He  lived  chiefly  in  the 
country,  among  pleasant  seats  and  home- 
steads, and  was  fond  of  sauntering  by  the 
fruit-tree  wall,  and  scenting  the  apricots 
when  they  were  warmed  by  the  morning  sun- 
shine, or  of  sheltering  himself  under  the  or- 
chard boughs  at  noon,  when  the  summer 
pears  were  falling.  He  knew  nothing  of 
week-day  services,  and  thought  none  the 


worse  of  the  Sunday  sermon  if  it  allowed  him 
to  sleep  from  the  text  to  the  blessing — liking 
the  afternoon  service  best,  because  the 
prayers  were  the  shortest,  and  not  ashamed 
to  say  so  ;  for  he  had  an  easy,  jolly  con- 
science, broad-backed  like  himself,  and  able 
to  carry  a  great  deal  of  beer  or  port  wine — 
not  being  made  squeamish  by  doubts  and 
qualms  and  lofty  aspirations.  Life  was  not 
a  task  to  him,  but  a  sinecure ;  he  fingered 
the  guineas  in  his  pocket,  and  ate  his  dinners, 
and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  irresponsible;  for 
had  he  not  kept  up  his  charter  by  going  to 
church  on  the  Sunday  afternoon  ? 

Fine  old  Leisure !  Do  not  be  severe  upon 
him,  and  judge  him  by  our  modern  standard  , 
he  never  went  to  Exeter  Hall,  or  heard  a 
popular  preacher,  or  read  Tracts  for  the  I'imes, 
or  Sartor  Resartus. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


THE  DREAM. 

No  victor  that  in  battle  spent, 
When  he  at  night  asleep  doth  lie 
Kich  in  a  conquered  monarch's  tent, 
E'er  had  so  vain  a  dream  as  I. 

Methought  I  saw  the  earliest  shade 
And  sweetest  that  the  spring  can  spread, 
Of  jasmin,  briar,  and  woodbine  made; 
And  there  I  saw  Clorinda  dead. 

Though  dead  she  lay,  yet  could  I  see 
No  cypress  nor  no  mourning  yew ; 
Nor  yet  the  injured  lover's  tree ; 
No  willow  near  her  coffin  grew. 

But  all  showed  unconcerned  to  be, 
As  if  just  Nature  there  did  strive 
To  be  as  pitiless  as  she 
Was  to  her  lover  when  alive. 

And  now,  methought,  I  lost  all  care, 
In  losing  her ;  and  was  as  free 
As  birds  let  loose  into  the  air, 
Or  rivers  that  are  got  to  sea, 

Methought  Love's  monarchy  was  gone ; 
And  whilst  elective  members  sway 
Our  choice,  and  change  makes  power  our 
And  those  court  us  whom  we  obey. 

Yet  soon,  now  from  my  Princess  free, 
I  rather  frantic  grew  than  glad, 
For  subjects,  getting  liberty, 
Get  but  a  license  to  be  mad. 

Birds  that  are  long  in  cages  awed, 
If  they  get  out,  awhile  will  roam  ; 
But  straight  want  skill  to  live  abroad, 
Then  pine  and  hover  near  their  home. 


102 


LIFE  IN  AS-YOU-LIKE. 


And  to  the  ocean  rivers  run 
From  being  pent  in  buiiks  of  flowers ; 
Not  knowing  that  the  exhaling  sun 
Will  send  them  back  in  weeping  showers. 

Soon  thus  for  pride  of  liberty 
I  low  desires  of  bondage  found  ; 
And  vanity  of  being  free 
Bred  the  discretion  to  be  bound. 

But  as  dull  subjects  see  too  late 
Their  safety  in  monarchal  reign, 
Finding  their  freedom  in  a  State 
Is  but  proud  strutting  in  a  chain  ; 

Then  growing  wiser,  when  undone, 
In  winter  nights  sad  stories  sing 
In  praise  of  monarchs  long  since  gone, 
To  whom  their  bells  they  yearly  ring ; 

So  now  I  mourned  that  she  was  dead, 
Whose  single  power  did  govern  me ;. 
And  quickly  was  by  reason  led 
To  find  the  harm  of  liberty. 

Even  so  the  lovers  cf  this  land 

(Love's  empire  in  Clorinda  gone) 

Though  they  were  quit  from  Lov/s  command, 

And  beauty's  world  was  all  their  o>vn. 

But  lovers,  who  are  Nature's  best 
Old  subjects,  never  long  revolt ; 
They  soon  in  passion's  war  contest, 
Yet  in  their  march  soon  make  a  halt. 

And  those,  when  by  my  mandates  brought 
Near  dead  Clorinda,  ceased  to  boast 
Of  freedom  found,  and  wept  for  thought 
Of  their  delightful  bondage  lost. 

And  now  the  day  to  night  was  turned, 
Or  sadly  night's  close  mourning  wore ; 
All  maids  Cor  one  another  mourned, 
That  lovers  now  could  love  no  more. 

All  lovers  quickly  did  perceive 
They  had  on  earth  no  more  to  do 
Than  civilly  to  take  their  leave, 
As  worthies  that  to  dying  go. 

Aud  now  all  quires  her  dirges  sing, 

In  shades  of  cypress  and  of  yew ; 

'me  bells  of  every  temple  ring, 

Where  maids  their  withered  garlands  strew. 

To  such  extremes  did  sorrow  rise, 
That  it  transcended  speech  and  form, 
And  was  so  lost  to  ears  and  eyes 
As  seamen  sinking  in  a  storm. 

My  soul,  in  sieep's  soft  fetters  bound, 
Did  now  for  vital  freedom  strive ; 
And  stralgnt,  by  horror  waked,  I  found 
The  fair  (Jiorinda  still  alive. 


Yet  she's  to  me  but  such  a  light, 
As  are  the  stars  to  those  who  know 
We  can  at  most  but  guess  their  height, 
And  hope  they  mind  us  here  below. 

SIB  WILLIAM  DAVEMANT. 


LIFE  IN  AS-YOU-LIKE. 

As-you-like  is  a  monarchy  ;  a  limited  mon- 
archy. At  the  time  I  dwelt  there,  the  crown 
was  worn  by  King  Abdomen,  almost  the  gieat- 
est  man  that  ever  walked.  His  natural  ac- 
complishments were  many,  he  was  held  to 
make  a  more  melodious  sneeze  than  any  man 
in  the  universe.  He  invented  buttons,  the 
people  of  As-you-like  before  his  time  tying  their 
clothes  about  them  with  strings.  He  also  in- 
vented quart  goblets.  He  was  the  son  of 
King  Stubborn,  known  as  the  King  of  the 
Shortwools. 

After  the  king  came  the  nobility  ;  that  is 
the  men  who  had  shown  themselves  better 
than  other  men,  and  those  virtues  were  work- 
ed into  their  titles. 

Thus  there  was  the  Duke  of  Lovingkincl- 
ness ;  the  Marquis  of  Sensibility ;  the  Earl 
of  Tenderheart ;  the  Baron  of  Hospitality, 
and  so  forth.  Touching,  too,  was  the  herald- 
ry of  As-you-like.  The  royal  arms  were, 
charity  healing  a  bruised  lamb,  with  the  le- 
gend, Dieu  et  paix.  And  then  for  the  coach- 
panels  of  the  aristocracy,  I  have  stood  by  the 
hour,  at  holiday  times,  watching  them ;  and 
tears  have  crept  into  my  eyes,  and  my  heart 
has  softened  under  their  delicious  influence. 
There  were  no  lions,  griffins,  panthers, 
lynxes — no  swords  or  daggers — no  short  ver- 
bial  incitements  to  man-quelling.  Oh,  no ! 
One  nobleman  would  have  for  his  bearings  a 
large  wheaten  loaf,  with  the  legend — Ask  and 
have.  Another  would  have  a  hand  bearing 
a  purse,  with  the  question —  Who  lacks  ?  An- 
other would  have  a  truckle-bed  painted  on 
his  panels,  with  the  words — To  the  tired  and 
footsore,.  Another  would  display  some  come- 
ly garment,  with — New  clothes  for  rags.  Oh  ! 
I  could  go  through  a  thousand  of  such  bear- 
ings, all  with  the  prettiest  quaintness  show- 
ing the  soft  fleshly  heart  of  the  nobleman,  and 
inviting,  with  all  the  brief  simplicity  of  true 
tenderness,  the  hungry,  the  poor,  the  weary, 
and  the  sick,  to  come,  feed,  and  be  comforted. 
And  these  men  were  the  nobility  of  As-you- 
like  ;  nor  was  there  even  a  dog  to  show  his 
democratic  teeth  at  them. 

The  church  was  held  in  deepest  reverence. 
Happy  was  the  man  who,  in  his  noon-  day 
walk,  should  meet  a  bishop ;  for  it  was  held 
by  him  as  an  omen  of  every  manner  of  good 
fortune.  This  beautiful  superstition  arose, 
doubtless,  from  the  love  and  veneration  paid 


LIFE  IN  AS-YOU-LIKE. 


103 


by  the  people  to  ihe  ministers  of  religion, 
who  from  their  tenderness,  their  piety,  their 
affection  towards  their  flocks,  were  looked 
upon  as  the  very  porters  to  heaven.  The 
love  of  the  people  placed  in  the  hands  of  their 
bishops  heaps  of  money  ;  but  as  quickly  as  it 
was  heaped,  it  was  scattered  again  by  the 
ministers  of  the  faith,  who  were  thus  perpet- 
ually preaching  goodness  and  charity  at  the 
hearths  of  the  poor,  and  the  poor  were  every 
hour  lifting  up  their  hands  and  blessing  them. 
It  was  not  enough  that  the  bishops  were  thus 
toilsome  in  their  out-door  work  of  good  ;  but 
in  the  making  of  new  laws  and  amending  of 
old  ones,  they  showed  the  sweetness,  and,  in 
the  truest  sense,  the  greatness  of  the  human 
spirit.  During  my  stay  in  As-you-like,  what 
we  should  call  the  House  of  Lords,  but  what 
in  that  country  was  called  the  House  of  Vir- 
tues, debated  on  what  some  of  their  lordships 
deemed  a  very  pretty  case  to  go  to  war  upon  ; 
and,  sooth  to  say,  for  a  time  the  House  of 
Virtues  seemed  to  forget  the  active  benevo- 
lence that  had  heretofore  been  its  moving 
principle.  Whereupon  the  bishops  one  by 
one  arose,  and  from  their  lips  there  flowed 
such  heavenly  music,  in  their  eyes  there 
sparkled  such  apostolic  tears,  that  all  the 
members  of  the  House  of  Virtues  rose,  and 
with  one  accord  fell  to  embracing  one  another, 
and  called  all  the  world  their  brothers,  and 
vowed  they  would  talk  away  the  misunder- 
standing between  themselves  and  neighbours ; 
they  would  not  shed  blood,  they  would  not 
go  to  war. 

And  this  was  ever  after  called  the  peace  of 
the  bishops. 

The  second  deliberative  assembly  was  call- 
ed the  House  of  Workers.  No  man  could  be 
one  of  these,  who  had  not  made  known  to  the 
world  his  wisdom — his  justice — his  worship 
of  truth  for  truth's  sake.  No  worker  was 
returned  upon  the  mere  chance  of  his  fit- 
ness. He  must  be  known  as  an  out-door 
worker  for  the  good  of  his  fellow-men,  before 
he  could  be  sent,  an  honoured  member,  to 
the  House.  The  duty  of  the  assembly  was 
to  make  laws  ;  and  as  these  were  to  be  made 
for  all  men,  it  was  the  prime  endeavour  and 
striving  of  the  workers  to  write  them  in  the 
plainest  words,  in  the  briefest  meaning.  They 
would  debate  and  work  for  a  whole  day — they 
always  assembled  with  clear  heads  and  fresh 
spirits  every  morning  at  nine — to  enshrine 
their  wisdom  in  the  fewest  syllables.  And 
whereas,  here  with  us  we  give  our  children 
"Goody  Two  Shoes"  and  "Jack  and  the 
Bean  Stalk,"  as  the  easiest  and  simplest 
lessons  for  their  tender  minds  to  fasten  on,  in 
As-you-like  the  little  creatures  read  the 
Abridgement  of  the  Statutes  for  their  first 


book ;  so  clear,  so  lucid,  so  direct  was  it  in 
its  meaning  and  its  purpose. 

Nevertheless,  as  there  were  some  dull  and 
giddy  folk,  who,  after  all  the  labour  of  tht 
House  of  Workers,  could  or  would  not  know 
the  laws,  there  were  certain  meek  and  loving- 
kind  professors  called  goodmen  guides,  an- 
swering to  our  attorneys,  whose  delight  it 
was,  for  the  very  smallest  imaginable  sum,  to 
interpret  and  make  known  the  power  and 
beauty  of  the  statutes.  And  whereas  among 
us,  physicians  and  surgeons — may  the  spirits 
of  charity  and  peace  consecrate  their  fire- 
sides ! — set  apart  a  portion  of  the  day  to  feel 
the  pulse  of  stricken  poverty,  to  comfort  and 
solace  the  maimed  and  wasting  poor — so  in 
As-you-like,  did  these  goodmen  guides  give  a 
part  of  their  time  to  the  passionate  and  igno- 
rant, advising  them  to  abstain  from  the  fever- 
ish turmoil  of  law ;  showing  them  how  sus- 
pense would  bake  their  blood  and  eat  their 
hearts,  and  wear  and  weigh  down  man's  no- 
ble spirit.  And  thus,  these  goodmen  guides 
would,  I  say,  with  a  silken  string,  lead  men 
back  to  content  and  neighbourly  adjustment. 
When  men  could  pay  for  such  counsel,  they 
paid  a  moderate  cost  5  when  they  were  poor, 
they  were  advised,  as  by  the  free  benevolence 
of  the  mediator. 

The  people  of  As-you-like  had,  a  thousand 
years  or  so  before,  waged  war  with  other  na- 
tions. There  could  be  no  doubt  of  it,  for 
the  cannon  still  remained.  I  saw  what  at 
one  time  had  been  an  arsenal.  There  were 
several  pieces  of  artillery  ;  the  swallows  had 
built  their  nests  under  their  very  mouths. 
As  I  will  not  disguise  anything,  I  own  there 
were  a  few  persons  who,  when  a  war  was 
talked  of,  the  war  so  happily  prevented  by 
the  bishops,  strutted  and  looked  big,  and 
with  swollen  cheeks  gabbled  -about  glory. 
But  they  were  smiled  at  for  their  simplicity  ; 
advised,  corrected  by  the  dominant  reason  of 
the  country,  and,  after  a  time,  confessed 
themselves  to  be  very  much  ashamed  of  their 
past  folly. 

Perhaps  the  manner  in  which  the  As-you- 
likeans  transacted  business  was  strange ;  it 
may  appear  incredible.  I  was  never  more 
surprised  than  when  I  first  overheard  two 
men  dealing  for  a  horse.  One  was  a  seller  of 
horses,  the  other  seemed  a  comfortable  yeo- 
man. "  That  is  a  pretty  nag  of  yours,"  said 
the  yeoman.  "  Pretty  enough  outside,"  said 
the  horse-dealer.  "  I  will  give  you  ten 
lumps  for  it,"  said  the  farmer  (the  lump  sig- 
nifying our  pound).  "No,  you  shall  not," 
answered  the  horse-dealer,  "for  the  nag 
shies,  and  stumbles,  and  is  touched  a  little  in 
the  wind.  Nevertheless,  the  thing  ia  worth 
four  lumps."  "You  have  said  it?"  cried 


104 


LIFE  IN  AS-YOU-LIKE. 


the  yeoman.  "  I  have  said  it,"  answered  the 
horse-dealer.  Understand,  that  this  is  the 
only  form  of  oath — if  I  may  so  call  it — in 
As-you-like.  "You  have  said  it?"  "I 
have  said  it."  Such  is  the  most  solemn  pro- 
testation among  all  people,  from  the  king  to 
the  herdsman. 

The  shops  in  As-you-like  are  very  beauti- 
ful. All  the  goods  are  labelled  at  a  certain 
price.  You  want,  let  us  say,  a  pair  of  stock- 
ings. You  enter  the  shop.  The  common 
salutation  is  "Peace  under  this  roof,"  and 
the  shopkeeper  answers,  "  Peace  at  your 
home."  You  look  at  the  stockings,  and  lay- 
ing down  the  money,  take  the  goods  and  de- 
part. The  tradesman  never  bends  his  back 
in  thankfulness  until  his  nose  touches  the 
counter  ;  he  is  in  no  spasm  of  politeness  ;  not 
he  ;  you  would  think  him  the  buyer  and  not 
the  seller.  I  remember  being  particularly 
astonished  at  what  I  thought  the  ill-manners 
of  a  tradesman,  to  whom  I  told  my  astonish- 
ment. "  What,  friend,"  he  said,  "  should  I 
do  ?  My  neighbour  wants  a  fire-shovel — I 
sell  a  fire-shovel.  If  I  ought  to  fling  so  many 
thanks  at  him  for  buying  the  fire-shovel, 
should  he  not  first  thank  me  for  being  here 
with  fire-shovels  to  sell  ?  Politeness,  friend, 
as  you  call  it,  may  be  very  well ;  but  I  should 
somehow  suspect  the  wholesale  dealer  in  it. 
Where  I  should  carry  away  so  much  polite- 
ness, I  should  fear  I  had  short  weight."  A 
strange  people,  you  must  own,  these  As-you- 
likeans. 

Taxation  was  light,  for  there  was  no  man 
idle  in  As-you-like.  Indeed,  there  was  but 
one  tax ;  it  was  called  the  truth-tax,  and  for  this 
reason  :  Every  man  gave  in  an  account  of  his 
wealth  and  goods,  and  paid  in  proportion  to 
his  substance.  There  had  been  no  other 
taxes,  but  all  these  were  merged  into  this  one 
tax,  by  a  solemn  determination  of  the  House 
of  Virtues.  "  Since  Providence  has  given  to 
vis  the  greatest  measure  of  its  gifts,  it  has 
thereby  made  us  the  chancellors  to  poorer 
men."  Upon  this  avowed  principle,  the  one 
tax  was  made.  "Would  it  not  be  the  trick 
of  roguery  to  do  otherwise?"  they  said. 
"  Should  we  not  blush  to  see  the  ploughman 
sweating  at  his  task,  knowing  that,  squared 
by  his  means,  he  paid  more  than  we?  Should 
we  not  feel  the  robbers  of  the  man — not  the 
Virtues  banded  together  to  protect  him?" 
And  thus,  there  was  but  one  tax.  In  former 
ages  there  had  been  many ;  for  I  was  shown 
in  the  national  museum  of  As-yoU-like,  several 
mummies,  dry  and  coloured  like  saddle- 
leather,  that  in  past  centuries  had  been  living 
custom-house  officers  and  excisemen. 

There   were   prisons    in    As-you-like,    in 
which  the  idle  and  the  vicious  were  made  to 


work,  and  taught  the  wickedness,  the  very 
folly  of  guilt.  As  the  state,  however,  with 
paternal  love,  watched,  I  may  say  it,  at  the 
very  cradles  of  the  poor, — teaching  the 
pauper,  as  he  grew,  a  self-responsibility ; 
showing  to  him  right  and  wrong,  not  permit- 
ting to  grow  up,  with  at  best,  an  odd,  vague  no- 
tion, a  mere  guess  at  black  and  white, — 
there  were  few  criminals.  The  state  did  not 
expose  its  babies — for  the  poor  are  its  chil- 
dren— to  hang  them  when  men. 

So  dear  were  the  wants  of  the  poor  to  the 
rulers  of  As-you-like,  that  on  one  occasion, 
in  a  year  of  scarcity,  the  monarch  sold  all  his 
horses — the  beautiful  cattle  went  at  seventy 
thousand  lumps — and  laid  out  the  money  in 
building  school-rooms  and  finding  teachers 
for  pauper  babies. 

And  the  state,  believing  man  to  be  some- 
thing more  than  a  thing  of  digestion,  was  al- 
ways surrounding  the  people  with  objects  of 
loveliness,  so  that  a  sense  of  the  beautiful 
might  be  with  them  even  as  the  colour  of  their 
blood,  and  thus  might  soften  and  elevate  the 
spirit  of  man,  and  teach  him  true  gentleness 
out  of  his  very  admiration  of  the  works  of 
his  fellow.  Hence,  the  museums  and  picture 
galleries,  and  abbeys  and  churches,  were  all 
thrown  open  to  the  people,  who  always 
seemed  refined,  subdued  by  the  emanations  of 
loveliness  around  them. 

There  were  very  many  rich  people  in  As- 
you-like,  but  I  never  knew  them  to  be  thought 
a  bit  the  better  off  for  their  money.  They 
were  thought  fortunate,  no  more.  They  were 
looked  upon  as  men,  who,  having  put  into  a 
lottery,  had  had  the  luck  to  draw  a  prize. 
As  for  the  poor,  they  were  always  treated 
with  a  softness  of  manner  that  surprised  me. 
The  poor  man  in  As-you-like  seemed  privi- 
leged by  his  property.  He  seemed  to  have  a 
stronger  claim  to  the  sympathies  of  those  in 
worldly  substance  over  him.  Had  a  rich 
man  talked  brutally,  or  domineered  over,  or 
ill-used  a  pauper  in  As-you-like,  he  would  have 
been  looked  upon  as  we  look  upon  a  man 
who  beats  a  woman.  There  was  thought  to 
be  a  moral  cowardice  in  the  act  that  made  its 
doer  despicable  Hence,  it  was  as  common 
in  As-you-like  to  see  the  rich  man  first  touch 
his  hat  to  the  poor,  as  with  us  for  the  pauper 
to  make  preliminary  homage  to  wealth.  Then, 
in  As-you-like,  no  man  cared  to  disguise  the 
smallness  of  his  means.  To  call  a  man  a 
pauper  was  no  more  than  with  us  to  say  his 
eyes  are  gray  or  hazel.  And  though  there 
were  poor  men,  there  were  no  famishing 
creature,  no  God's  image,  sitting  with  his 
bony,  idle  hands  before  him,  like  a  maniac  in 
a  cage — brutalized,  maddened,  by  the  world's 
selfishness. 

DOUGLAS  JERROLS. 


DISPROPORTION  OF  MAN. 


105 


A  BRIDAL  SONG. 

Roses,  their  sharp  spines  being  gone> 
Not  royal  in  tueir  smells  ulone, 

But  in  their  hue; 
Maiden  pinks,  of  odour  faint ; 
Daisies  smell-less,  yet  most  quaint, 

And  sweet  thyme  true ; 

Primrose,  first-born  child  of  Ver, 
Merry  spring-time's  harbinger, 

With  her  bells  dim ; 
Oxlips  in  their  cradles  growing, 
Marigolds  on  death-beds  blowing, 

Lark-heels  trim ; 

All,  dear  Nature's  children  sweet. 
Lie  'fore  bride  and  bridegroom's  fejt, 

dossing  their  g'jiije ! 
Not  an  angel  of  the  air, 
Bird  melodious,  or  bird  fair, 

Be  absent  hence ! 

The  crow,  the  slanderous  cuckoo,  nor 
The  boding  raven,  nor  chough  hoar, 

Nor  chattering  pie, 

May  on  our  bride-house  perch  or  sing, 
Or  with  them  any  discord  bring, 

But  from  it  fly  ! 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHEH. 


DISPROPORTION  OF  MAN. 

Let  man  contemplate  entire  nature  in  her 
height  and  full  majesty  ;  let  him  remove  his 
view  from  the  low  objects  which  surround 
him;  let  him  regard  that  shining  luminary 
placed  as  an  eternal  lamp  to  give  light  to  the 
universe ;  let  him  consider  the  earth  as  a 
point,  in  comparison  with  the  vast  circuit  de- 
scribed by  that  star  (sun) ;  let  him  learn 
with  wonder  that  this  vast  circuit  itself  is  but 
a  very  minute  point  when  compared  with 
that  embraced  by  the  stars  which  roll  in  the 
firmament.  But  if  our  view  stops  there,  let 
the  imagination  pass  beyond :  it  will  sooner 
be  wearied  with  conceiving  than  nature  with 
supplying  food  for  contemplation.  All  this 
visible  world  is  but  an  imperceptible  point 
in  the  ample  bosom  of  nature.  No  idea  ap- 
proaches it.  In  vain  we  extend  our  concep- 
tions beyond  imaginable  spaces ;  we  bring 
forth  but  atoms,  in  comparison  with  the  re- 
ality of  things.  It  is  an  infinite  sphere,  of 
which  the  centre  is  everywhere,  the  circum- 
ference nowhere.  In  fine,  it  is  the  greatest 
discernible  character  of  the  omnipotence  of 


God,  that  our  imagination  loses  itself  in  this 
thought. 

Let  man,  having  returned  to  himself,  con- 
sider what  he  is,  compared  to  what  i*;  let  him 
regard  himself  as  a  wanderer  into  this  remote 
province  of  nature ;  and  let  him,  Irom  this 
narrow  prison  wherein  he  finds  iiiiuself  dwcil- 

r  (I  mean  the  uni verse J,  learii  to  estimate 
the  earth,  kingdoms,  cities,  and  himself,  at  a 
proper  value. 

What  is  man  in  the  midst  of  the  infinite  ? 
But  to  show  him  another  prodigy  equally 
astonishing,  let  iiiin  seek  in  what  he  knows 
things  the  most  minute  ;  let  a  mite  exhibit  to 
him  in  the  exceeding  smailness  of  its  body, 
parts  incomparably  smaller,  limbs  with  joints, 
veins  in  these  limbs,  blood  in  these  veins, 
humors  in  this  blood,  globules  in  these  humors, 
gases  in  these  globules  ;  let  him,  still  dividing 
these  last  objects,  exhaust  his  powers  of  con- 
ception, and  let  the  ultimate  object  at  which 
he  can  arrive  now  be  the  subject  of  our  dis- 
course ;  he  will  think,  perhaps,  tiiat  this  is 
the  minutest  atom  of  nature.  1  will  show 
him  therein  a  new  abyss.  1  will  picture  to 
him  not  only  the  visible  universe,  but  the 
conceivable  immensity  of  nature,  in  the  com- 
pass of  this  abbreviation  of  an  atom.  Let  him 
view  therein  an  infinity  of  worlds,  each  of 
which  has  its  firmament,  its  planets,  its  earth, 
in  the  same  proportion  as  the  visible  world ; 
and  on  this  earth  animals,  and  in  fine  mites, 
in  which  he  will  find  again  what  the  first 
have  given;  and  still  finding  in  the  others 
the  same  things,  without  end,  and  without 
repose,  let  him  lose  himself  in  these  wonders, 
as  astonishing  in  their  littleness  as  the  others 
in  their  magnitude  ;  for  who  will  not  marvel 
that  our  body,  which  just  before  was  not  per- 
ceptible in  the  universe,  itself  imperceptible 
in  the  bosom  of  the  all,  is  now  a  colossus,  a 
world,  or  rather  an  all  in  comparison  with 
the  nothingness  at  which  it  is  impossible  to 
arrive  ? 

Whoever  shall  thus  consider  himself,  will 
be  frightened  at  himself,  and  observing  him- 
self suspended  in  the  mass  of  matter  allotted 
to  him  by  nature,  between  these  two  abysses 
of  infinity  and  nothingness,  will  tremble  at 
the  sight  of  these  wonders  ;  and  I  believe  that 
his  curiosity  being  changed  into  admiration 
he  will  be  more  disposed  to  contemplate  them 
in  silence,  than  to  investigate  them  with  pre- 
sumption. 

For,  in  fine,  what  is  man  in  the  m'dst  of 
nature?  A  nothing  in  comparison  with  the 
infinite,  an  all  in  comparison  with  nothing- 
ness: a  mean  between  nothing  and  ail.  In- 
finitely far  from  comprehending  the  extremes, 
the  end  of  things  and  their  principle  are  for 
him  inevitably  concealed  in  an  impenetrable 


106 


DISPROPORTION  OF  MAN. 


secret ;  equally  incapable  of  seeing  the  noth- 
ingness whence  he  is  derived,  and  the  infinity 
in  which  he  is  swallowed  up. 

What  can  he  do,  then,  but  perceive  some 
appearance  of  the  midst  of  things,  in  eternal 
despair  of  knowing  either  their  principle  or 
their  end  ?  AH  things  have  sprung  from 
nothingness,  and  are  carried  onward  to  the 
infinite.  Who  shall  follow  this  astonishing 
procession  of  things  ?  The  Author  of  these 
wonders  comprehends  them  ;  no  other  can. 

Through  want  of  having  contemplated  these 
infinities,  men  are  rashly  born  to  the  investi- 
gation of  nature,  as  if  they  had  some  propor- 
tion with  it. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  that  they  have  wished 
to  comprehend  the  principles  of  things,  and 
from  thence  even  to  reacli  a  knowledge  of  all, 
by  a  presumption  as  infinite  as  their  object. 
For  it  is  unquestionable  that  such  a  design 
cannot  be  formed  without  a  presumption  or 
capacity  infinite  like  nature. 

When  we  are  instructed,  we  comprehend 
that  nature,  having  engraved  her  image  and 
that  of  her  Author  upon  all  things,  they  almost 
all  participate  in  her  double  infinity.  Thus 
we  see  that  all  the  sciences  are  infinite  in  the 
extent  of  their  researches;  for  who  doubts  that 
geometry,  for  example,  has  an  infinity  of  in- 
finities of  propositions  to  exhibit  ?  They  are 
also  infinite  in  the  multitude  and  delicacy  of 
their  principles  ;  for  who  does  not  see  that 
those  which  are  proposed  as  the  ultimate  are 
not  self-sustaining,  and  that  they  rest  upon 
others  which,  having  still  others  for  a  sup- 
port, never  adnyt  an  ultimate  ? 

But  we  do  with  ultimates  that  appear  to 
reason  as  we  do  in  regard  to  material  things, 
wherein  we  call  that  an  indivisible  point  be- 
yond which  our  senses  perceive  nothing  more, 
although  it  is  by  its  nature  infinitely  divisible. 

Of  these  two  infinities  of  science,  that  of 
magnitude  is  much  more  obvious,  and  there- 
fore it  has  happened  to  few  persons  to  pretend 
to  all  knowledge  of  all  things.  "I  am  about 
to  speak  of  all  things,"  said  Democritus. 

But  the  infinity  in  littleness  is  much  less 
discernible.  The  philosophers  have  much 
sooner  pretended  to  arrive  at  it ;  and  here  it 
is  where  they  have  all  stumbled.  It  is  what 
has  given  place  to  these  very  common  titles, 
"Principles  of  things,"  '  Principles  of  philo- 
sophy," and  the  like,  as  ostentatious  in  re- 
ality, although  not  in  appearance,  as  this 
other  which  galls  the  eye. 

We  naturally  believe  ourselves  much  more 
capable  of  reaching  the  centre  of  things  than 
of  embracing  their  circumference.  The  visi- 
ble extent  of  the  world  obviously  surpasses 
us ;  but  as  we  surpass  little  things,  we  be- 
lieve ourselves  capable  of  possessing  them; 


and  yet  it  requires  no  less  capacity  to  reach 
nothingness  than  to  reach  the  all.  It  re- 
quires infinite  capacity  for  either;  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  whoever  should  have  com- 
prehended the  ultimate  principles  of  things 
might  also  arrive  at  a  knowledge  of  the  in- 
finite. One  depends  upon  the  other,  and  the 
one  leads  to  the  other. 

The  extremes  touch  and  unite  by  reason  of 
their  remoteness  from  each  other,  and  arc 
found  in  God  and  in  God  only. 

Let  us  know  then  our  range;  we  are  some 
thing  and  not  all.  What  we  have  of  bein^ 
deprives  us  of  the  knowledge  of  first  principles, 
which  spring  from  nothingness,  and  the  little 
that  we  have  of  being  conceals  from  us  the 
view  of  the  infinite. 

Our  intellect  holds  in  the  order  of  things 
intelligible  the  same  rank  as  our  body  in  the 
extent  of  nature. 

Limited  in  every  way,  this  state  which 
holds  the  mean  between  two  extremes  is 
found  in  all  our  powers. 

Our  senses  perceive  nothing  extreme.  Too 
much  noise  deafens  us;  too  much  light  daz- 
zles us ;  too  much  distance  or  too  much  prox- 
imity impedes  vision  ;  too  much  length  or  too 
much  brevity  of  discourse  obscures  it;  too 
much  truth  astonishes  us :  I  know  those  who 
cannot  comprehend  that  when  four  are  taken 
from  nothing,  nothing  remains.  First  princi- 
ples have  too  much  evidence  for  us.  Too 
much  pleasure  incommodes.  Too  much  har- 
mony in  music  displeases  ;  too  many  benefits 
irritate :  we  wish  to  have  wherewith  to  re- 
pay the  debt . 

We  feel  neither  extreme  heat  nor  extreme 
cold.  Excessive  qualities  are  inimical  to  usj 
and  not  discernible  ;  we  no  longer  feel  them, 
we  suffer  them.  Too  much  youth  and'  too 
much  age  obstruct  the  mind ;  too  much  or 
too  little  instruction.  In  fine,  extreme  things 
are  for  us  as  if  they  were  not,  and  we  are 
not  in  regard:  they  escape  us,  or  we  them. 

Such  is  our  true  state.  This  is  what  rend- 
ers us  incapable  of  certain  knowledge  and 
absolute  ignorance.  We  drift  on  a  vast 
ocean  always  uncertain  and  floating,  driven 
from  one  extreme  towards  the  other.  Some 
term,  whereat  we  think  to  fix  ourselves  and 
become  settled,  wavers  and  quits  us ;  and  if 
we  follow  it,  it  escapes  our  grasp,  slips  from 
us,  and  flies  with  an  eternal  flight. 

Nothing  stops  for  us.  This  is  the  state 
natural  to  us,  and  yet  the  most  contrary  to 
our  inclination :  we  burn  with  desire  to  find 
a  firm  seat  and  an  ultimate  constant  basis,  in 
order  to  build  upon  it  a  tower  that  shall  reach 
to  the  infinite;  but  our  whole  foundation 
cracks,  and  the  earth  opens  to  the  abyss. 
BLAISK  PASCAL. 


THE  FALCON. 


107 


THE   FALCON. 

[Giovanni  Boccaccio,  born  in  Paris,  1313,  died  at 
Certaldo  Val  d'Elsa.  2.st  December,  1375.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  merchant  of  Florence,  and  in  that  city  he 
was  educated.  He  may  be  regarded  as  the  father  of 
Ita'ian  prose;  and  he  was  the  author  of  the  first  roman- 
tic and  chivalrous  poem  written  in  the  Italian  language, 
La  Ttseide,  the  subject  being  the  fabulous  adventures 
of  Theseus.  From  the  Ttseide  Chaucer  borrowed  the 
materials  of  his  Kniyht's  Tale.  The  most  important  of 
Boccaccio's  prose  works  is  the  Decameron,  which  was 
written  at  the  desire  of  Queen  Joan  of  Naples.  It  is  a 
series  of  one  hundred  tales,  supposed  to  be  narrated  by 
seven  ladies  and  three  gentlemen,  who  have  fled  to  a 
country  house  to  escape  the  plague  which  visited  Flo- 
rence in  1348.  The  intrigues  of  lovers  form  the  chief 
element  of  the  stories,  and  the  details  of  the  greater 
number  display  a  licentious  freedom  of  manners. 
Several  of  the  tales,  however,  are  pure  and  interesting. 
One  of  the  important  labours  which  Boccaccio  accom- 
plished was  the  collection  of  a  valuable  library  of  Greek 
and  Latin  classics.  The  library  was  unfortunately  de- 
stroyed by  fire  about  a  century  after  his  deaih.] 

There  lived  in  Florence  a  young  man,  called 
Federigo  Alberigi,  who  surpassed  all  the  youth 
of  Tuscany  in  feats  of  arms,  and  in  accom- 
plished manners.  He  (for  gallant  men  will 
fall  in  love)  became  enamoured  of  Monna 
Giovanna,  at  that  time  considered  the  finest 
woman  in  Florence ;  and  that  he  might  inspire 
her  with  a  reciprocal  passion,  he  squandered 
his  fortune  at  tilts  and  tournaments,  in  enter- 
tainments and  presents.  But  the  lady,  who 
was  virtuous  as  she  was  beautiful,  could  on  no 
account  be  prevailed  on  to  return  his  love. 
While  he  lived  thus  extravagantly,  and  with- 
out the  means  of  recruiting  his  coffers,  poverty, 
the  usual  attendant  of  the  thoughtless,  came 
on  apace;  his  money  was  spent,  and  nothing 
remained  to  him  but  a  small  farm,  barely 
sufficient  for  his  subsistence,  and  a  falcon, 
which  was  however  the  finest  in  the  world. 
When  he  found  it  impossible  therefore  to  live 
longer  in  town,  he  retired  to  his  little  farm, 
where  he  went  a  birding  in  his  leisure  hours; 
and  disdaining  to  ask  favours  of  any  one,  he 
submitted  patiently  to  his  poverty,  while  he 
cherished  in  secret  a  hopeless  passion. 

It  happened  about  this  time  that  the  hus- 
band of  Monna  Giovanna  died,  leaving  a  great 
fortune  to  their  only  son,  who  was  yet  a  youth; 
and  that  the  boy  came  along  with  his  mother 
to  spend  the  summer  months  in  the  country 
(as  our  custom  usually  is),  at  a  villa  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Federigo's  farm.  In  this 
way  he  became  acquainted  with  Federigo,  and 
began  to  delight  in  birds  and  dogs,  and  having 


seen  his  falcon,  he  took  a  great  longing  for  it, 
but  was  afraid  to  ask  it  of  him  when  he  saw 
how  highly  he  prized  it.  This  desire,  however, 
so  much  affected  the  boy's  spirits,  that  he  fell 
sick;  and  his  mother,  who  doated  upon  this 
her  only  child,  became  alarmed,  and  to  soothe 
him,  pressed  him  again  and  again  to  ask  what- 
ever he  wished,  and  promised,  that  if  it  were 
possible,  he  should  have  all  that  he  desired. 
The  youth  at  last  confessed,  that  if  he  had  the 
falcon  he  would  soon  be  well  again.  When  the 
lady  heard  this,  she  began  to  consider  what 
she  should  do.  She  knew  that  Federigo  had 
long  loved  her,  and  had  received  from  her 
nothing  but  coldness;  and  how  could  she  ask 
the  falcon,  which  she  heard  was  the  finest  in 
the  world,  and  which  was  now  his  only  conso- 
lation? Could  she  be  so  cruel  as  to  deprive 
him  of  his  last  remaining  support? — Perplexed 
with  these  thoughts,  which  the  full  belief  that 
she  should  have  the  bird  if  she  asked  it,  did 
not  relieve,  she  knew  not  what  to  think,  or 
how  to  return  her  sou  an  answer.  A  mother's 
love,  however,  at  last  prevailed;  she  resolved 
to  satisfy  him,  and  determined,  whatever  might 
be  the  consequence,  not  to  send,  but  to  go  her- 
self and  procure  the  falcon.  She  told  her  son, 
therefore,  to  take  courage,  and  think  of  getting 
better,  for  that  she  would  herself  go  on  the 
morrow,  and  fetch  what  he  desired:  and  the 
hope  was  so  agreeable  to  the  boy,  that  he  began 
to  mend  apace.  On  the  next  morning  Monna 
Giovanna,  having  taken  another  lady  along 
with  her,  went  as  if  for  amusement  to  the  little 
cabin  of  Federigo,  and  inquired  for  him.  It 
was  not  the  birding  season,  and  he  was  at  work 
in  his  garden;  when  he  heard,  therefore,  that 
Monna  Giovanna  was  calling  upon  him,  he  ran 
with  joyful  surprise  to  the  door.  She,  on  the 
other  hand,  when  she  saw  him  coming,  advan- 
ced with  delicate  politeness;  and  when  he  had 
respectfully  saluted  her,  she  said,  "All  happi- 
ness attend  you,  Federigo;  I  am  come  to  repay 
you  for  the  loss  you  have  suffered  from  loving 
me  too  well,  for  this  lady  and  I  intend  to  dine 
with  you  in  an  easy  way  this  forenoon."  To 
this  Federigo  humbly  answered:  "I  do  not 
remember,  Madam,  having  suffered  any  loss 
at  your  hands,  but  on  the  contrary,  have  re- 
ceived so  much  good,  that  if  ever  I  had  any 
worth,  it  sprung  from  you,  and  from  the  love 
with  which  you  inspired  me.  And  this  generous 
visit  to  your  poor  host,  is  much  more  dear  to 
me  than  would  be  the  spending  again  of  what 
I  have  already  spent."  Having  said  this,  he 
invited  them  respectfully  into  the  house,  and 
from  thence  conducted  them  to  the  garden, 
where,  having  nobody  else  to  keep  them  com- 


103 


THE  FALCON. 


pany,  he  requested  that  they  would  allow  the 
labourer's  wife  to  do  her  best  to  amuse  them, 
while  he  went  to  order  dinner. 

Federigo,  however  great  his  poverty,  had 
not  yet  learned  all  the  prudence  which  the  loss 
of  fortune  might  have  taught  him;  and  it  thus 
happened,  that  he  had  nothing  in  the  house 
with  which  he  could  honourably  entertain  the 
lady  for  whose  love  he  had  formerly  given  so 
many  entertainments.  Cursing  his  evil  fortune, 
therefore,  he  stood  like  one  beside  himself,  and 
looked  in  vain  for  money  or  pledge.  The  hour 
was  already  late,  and  his  desire  extreme  to  lind 
something  worthy  of  his  mistress;  he  felt  re- 
pugnant, too,  to  ask  from  his  own  labourer. 
While  he  was  thus  perplexed,  he  chanced  to 
cast  his  eyes  upon  his  fine  falcon,  which  was 
sitting  upon  a  bar  in  the  ante-chamber.  Hav- 
ing no  other  resource,  therefore,  he  took  it  into 
his  hand,  and  finding  it  fat,  he  thought  it 
would  be  proper  for  such  a  lady.  He  accord- 
ingly pulled  its  neck  without  delay,  and  gave 
it  to  a  little  girl  to  be  plucked;  and  having 
put  it  upon  a  spit,  he  made  it  be  carefully 
roasted.  He  then  covered  the  table  with  a 
beautiful  cloth,  a  wreck  of  his  former  splendour ; 
and  everything  being  ready,  he  returned  to 
the  garden,  to  tell  the  lady  and  her  companion 
that  dinner  was  served.  They  accordingly 
went  in  and  sat  down  to  table  with  Federigo, 
and  ate  the  good  falcon  without  knowing  it. 

When  they  had  finished  dinner,  and  spent  a 
ehort  while  in  agreeable  conversation,  the  lady 
thought  it  time  to  tell  Federigo  for  what  she 
had  come.  She  said  to  him,  therefore,  in  a 
gentle  tone,  "Federigo,  when  you  call  to  mind 
your  past  life,  and  recollect  my  virtue,  which 
perhaps  you  called  coldness  and  cruelty,  I 
doubt  not  but  that  you  will  be  astonished  at  ! 
my  presumption,  when  I  tell  you  the  principal  | 
motive  of  my  visit.  But  had  you  children, 
and  knew  how  great  a  love  one  bears  them,  I 
am  sure  you  would  in  part  excuse  me;  and  i 
although  you  have  them  not,  I  who  have  an  i 
only  child,  cannot  resist  the  feelings  of  a  ! 
mother.  By  the  strength  of  these  am  I  con- 
strained, in  spite  of  my  inclination,  and  con- 
trary to  propriety  and  duty,  to  ask  a  thing 
which  I  know  is  with  reason  dear  to  you,  for 
it  is  your  only  delight  and  consolation  in  your 
misfortunes :  that  gift  is  your  falcon,  for  which 
my  son  has  taken  so  great  a  desire,  that  unless 
he  obtain  it,  I  am  afraid  his  illness  will  increase, 
and  that  I  shall  lose  him.  I  beseech  you  to 
give  it  me,  therefore,  not  by  the  love  which 
you  bear  me  (for  to  that  you  owe  nothing),  but 
by  the  nobleness  of  your  nature,  which  you 
have  shown  in  nothing  more  than  in  your 


generosity ;  and  I  will  remain  eternally  your 
debtor  for  my  son's  life,  which  your  gift  will 
be  the  means  of  preserving. " 

When  Federigo  heard  the  lady's  request,  and 
knew  how  impossible  it  was  to  grant  it,  he 
burst  into  tears,  and  was  unable  to  make  any 
reply.  The  lady  imagined  that  this  arose 
from  grief  at  the  thought  of  losing  his  favourite, 
and  showed  his  unwillingness  to  part  with 
it;  nevertheless  she  waited  patiently  for  his 
answer.  He  at  length  said,  "Since  it  first 
pleased  Heaven,  Madam,  that  I  should  place 
my  affections  on  you,  I  have  found  fortune 
unkind  to  me  in  many  things,  and  have  often 
accused  her;  but  all  her  former  unkindness 
has  been  trifling  compared  with  what  she  has 
now  done  me.  How  can  I  ever  forgive  her, 
therefore,  when  I  remember,  that  you,  who 
never  deigned  to  visit  me  when  I  was  rich, 
have  come  to  my  poor  cottage  to  ask  a  favour 
which  she  has  cruelly  prevented  me  from  be- 
stowing. The  cause  of  this  I  shall  briefly  tell 
you.  When  I  found  that  in  your  goodness  you 
proposed  to  dine  with  me,  and  when  I  con- 
sidered your  excellence,  I  thought  it  my  duty 
to  honour  you  with  more  precious  food  than 
is  usually  given  to  others.  Recollecting  my 
falcon,  therefore,  and  its  worth,  I  deemed  it 
worthy  food,  and  accordingly  made  it  be  roasted 
and  served  up  for  dinner;  but  when  I  find  that 
you  wished  to  get  it  in  another  way,  I  shall 
never  be  consoled  for  having  it  not  in  my 
power  to  serve  you."  Having  said  this,  he 
showed  them  the  wings,  and  the  feet,  and  the 
bill,  as  evidences  of  the  truth  of  what  he  had 
told  them.  When  the  lady  had  heard  and 
seen  these  things,  she  chided  him  for  having 
killed  so  fine  a  bird  as  food  for  a  woman;  but 
admired  in  secret  that  greatness  of  mind  which 
poverty  had  been  unable  to  subdue.  Then, 
seeing  that  she  could  not  have  the  falcon,  and 
becoming  alarmed  for  the  safety  of  her  child, 
she  thanked  Federigo  for  the  honourable  enter- 
tainment he  had  given  them,  and  returned 
home  in  a  melancholy  mood.  Her  son,  on  the 
other  hand,  either  from  grief  at  not  getting 
the  falcon,  or  from  a  disease  occasioned  by  it, 
died  a  few  days  after,  leaving  his  mother 
plunged  in  the  deepest  affliction. 

Monna  Giovanna  was  left  very  rich,  and 
when  she  had  for  some  time  mourned  her  loss, 
being  importuned  by  her  brothers  to  marry 
again,  she  began  to  reflect  on  the  merit  of 
Federigo,  and  on  the  last  instance  of  his  gener- 
osity displayed  in  killing  so  fine  a  bird  to  do 
her  honour.  She  told  her  brothers,  therefore, 
that  she  would  marry  since  they  desired  it, 
but  that  her  only  choice  would  be  Federigo 


THREE   SONNETS. 


109 


Alberigi.  They  laughed  when  they  heard  this, 
and  asked  her  how  she  could  think  of  a  man 
who  had  nothing ;  but  she  answered,  that  she 
would  rather  have  a  man  without  money,  than 
money  without  a  man.  When  her  brothers, 
who  had  long  known  Federigo,  saw  therefore 
how  her  wishes  pointed,  they  consented  to  be- 
stow her  upon  him  with  all  her  wealth;  and 
Federigo,  with  a  wife  so  excellent  and  so  long 
beloved,  and  riches  equal  to  his  desires,  showed 
that  he  had  learned  to  be  a  better  steward,  and 
long  enjoyed  true  happiness. 


THE   KING  OF  THTJLE.1 

There  was  a  king  in  Thule 
Was  faithful  till  the  grave, 

To  whom  his  mistress,  dying, 
A  gulden  goblet  gave. 

Naught  was  to  him  more  precious; 

He  drained  it  at  every  bout : 
Ilia  eyes  with  tears  ran  over, 

As  oft  as  he  drank  thereout. 

When  came  his  time  of  dying, 
The  towns  in  his  land  he  told, 

Naught  else  to  his  heir  denying 
Except  the  goblet  of  gold. 

He  sat  at  the  royal  banquet 

With  his  knights  of  high  degree, 

In  the  lofty  hall  of  his  fathers, 
In  the  cast  e  by  the  sea. 

There  stood  the  old  carouser, 
And  drank  the  last  life-glow; 

And  hurled  the  hallowed  goblet 
Into  the  tide  below. 

He  saw  it  plunging  and  filling, 
And  sinking  deep  in  the  sea; 

Then  fell  his  eyelids  for  ever, 
And  never  more  drank  he  ! 


1  From  the  new  translation  of  Goethe's  Fa'Uft,  by 
Bayard  Taylor,  published  in  Boston  and  London,  1871 
Mr.  Taylor,  born  in  Chester  county.  Pennsylvania,  llth 
January,  1825,  has  earned  renown  as  poet,  traveller, 
novelist,  and  now  as  one  of  the  ablest  translators  of 
Goethe.  His  aim  was  to  reproduce  in  English  the 
metrical  peculiarities  of  the  original  German,  whilst 
keeping  faithful  to  the  text;  and  the  general  verdict  is 
that  the  attempt  has  been  in  every  respect  successful. 


THREE   SONNETS. 

[William  Drummond,  of  Hawthornden,  born  13th 
December,  1585;  died  4th  December,  lt>4W.  He  V---IA 
educated  in  Edinburgh  and  studied  civil  law  in  France. 
On  the  death  of  his  father,  1610,  he  retired  to  Haw- 
thornden, and  devoted  himself  to  literary  pursuits 
The  lady  he  loved  died  oil  the  eve  of  tiie  day  appointed 
for  their  marriage,  and  to  that  circumstance  is  attri- 
buted the  melancholy  strain  of  his  sonnets,  three  of 
which  we  give  here.  Philips,  the  nephew  of  Milton, 
edited  Drummoud's  works,  and  pronounced  him  equal 
to  Tasso.] 


That  learned  Grecian,  who  did  so  excel 
In  knowledge  passing  sense,  that  he  is  named 
Of  all  the  after-worlds  Divine,  doth  tell, 
That  all  the  time  when  first  our  souls  are  framed, 
Ere  in  these  mansions  blind  they  come  to  dwell. 
They  live  bright  rays  of  that  eternal  light, 
And  others  see,  know,  love,  in  heaven's  great  height ; 
Not  toil'd  with  ought  to  Reason  doth  rebel. 
It  is  most  true  !  for  straight  at  the  first  sight 
My  mind  me  told,  that,  in  some  other  place, 
It  elsewhere  saw  the  idea  of  that  face, 
And  loved  a  love  of  heavenly  pure  delight. 
What  wonder  now  I  feel  so  fair  a  flame, 
Since  I  her  loved  ere  on  this  earth  she  came  f 

II. 

My  lute  !  be  as  thou  wert  when  thou  did'st  grow 
With  thy  green  mother  in  some  shady  grove, 
When  immelodious  winds  but  made  thee  move, 
And  birds  their  ramage  did  on  thee  bestow. 
Since  that  dear  voice  which  did  thy  sounds  approve, 
Which  wont  in  such  harmonious  strains  to  flow, 
Is  reft  from  earth  to  tune  those  spheres  above, 
What  art  thou  but  a  harbinger  of  woe? 
Thy  pleasing  notes  be  pleasing  notes  no  more, 
But  orphan's  wailings  to  their  fainting  ear, 
Each  stroke  a  sigh,  each  sound  draws  forth  a  tear, 
For  which  be  silent  as  in  woods  before ; 
Or  if  that  any  hand  to  touch  thee  deign. 
Like  widow'd  turtle  still  her  loss  complain. 

III. 

What  doth  it  serve  to  see  the  sun's  bright  face, 

And  skies  enamell'd  with  the  Indian  gold? 

Or  jetty  moon  at  night  in  chariot  roll'd, 

And  all  the  glory  of  that  starry  place? 

What  doth  it  serve  earth's  beauty  to  behold! 

The  mountain's  pride — the  meadow's  flowery  grac« — 

The  stately  comeliness  of  forests  old — 

The  sport  of  floods,  which  would  themselves  embrace? 

What  doth  it  serve  to  hear  the  sylvan's  songs — 

The  cheerful  thrush— the  nightingale's  sad  strains, 

Which  in  dark  shades  seem  to  deplore  my  wrongs? 

For  what  doth  serve  all  that  this  world  contains, 
Since  she,  for  whom  those  once  to  me  were  dear, 
Can  have  no  part  of  them  now  with  me  here? 


110 


THE  STORY   OF  CRAZY  MARTHA. 


THE  STORY  OF  CRAZY  MARTHA. 

FROM  THE  PROVENCAL  OF  JACQUES  JASMIN. 

[Jacques  Jasmin,  born  at  Agen.  department  of  Lot- 
et-Garoune,  6th  March,  17l»S;  died  there  6th  October, 
18ti4.  As  the  "last  of  the  troubadours"  he  has  won  for 
himself  a  permanent  place  in  literature.  He  was  tlie 
son  of  a  poor  tailor,  and  was  himself  a  barber,  like  Allan 
Ramsay.  He  continued  to  work  at  his  trade  to  the  end, 
despite  many  inducements  to  abandon  it  and  to  quit  hU 
rural  home  for  the  city.  His  answer  to  all  who  wished 
him  to  change  his  mode  of  life,  was  : — "  I  shave  for  a  liv- 
ing and  I  sing  for  pleasure  "  His  poems  became  popular 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  were  written  in  a  language 
which  lias  been  long  disused  except  by  the  peasantry  of 
the  south  of  France.  The  Provencal  was  the  language 
of  the  troubadours,  and  its  popularity  was  revived  for  a 
brief  space  by  Jasmin  in  his  songs  of  the  pastoral  delights 
and  traditions  of  his  compatriots.  The  following  is  an 
admirable  translation  of  one  of  his  most  pathetic  stories 
(Mttltro  L'liioucento)  by  Professor  Henry  Coppee,  of  the 
Pennsylvania  University.  The  incidents  in  this  little 
drama  commenced  in  1798,  at  Lafitte,  a  pretty  hamlet 
situated  011  the  banks  of  the  Lot,  near  Clairac,  and  ter- 
minated in  180'J.  At  this  last  period,  Martha,  bereftof 
her  reason,  esc.iped  from  the  village,  and  was  often  after- 
wards seen  in  the  streets  of  Agen,  an  object  of  public 
pity,  begging  her  bread,  and  flying  in  terror  from  the 
children,  who  cried  outafter  her  : — "MaLtro,  ungouldat.'" 
(Martha,  a  soldier!)  The  author  confesses  that  more 
than  all  others,  in  his  childhood  he  pursued  poor  Martha 
with  his  sarcasms:  he  little  dreamed  that  one  day  his 
muse,  inspired  by  the  wretched  lot  of  the  poor  idiot, 
would  owe  to  her  one  of  his  most  exquisite  creations. 
Martha  died  in  1834.] 

I. 

Drawing   th'.    lot.—  Twt    different    hearts.— The   cards 
never  lie. — T/ie  conscript.— Tlte  oath. 

Not  far  from  the  banks  which  the  pretty 
little  river  Lot  bathes  with  the  cool  kisses  of 
its  transparent  waters,  there  lies,  half-concealed 
by  the  feathering  elms,  a  small  cabin.  There, 
on  a  beautiful  morning  in  April,  sat  a  voung 
girl  in  deep  thought ;  it  was  the  hour  when  in 
the  neighbouring  town  of  Touneins  a  band  of 
robust  young  men  were  awaiting  in  suspense 
the  result  of  the  army  draft  which  was  to 
decree  their  fate.  For  this  the  young  girl 
waited  too.  With  uplifted  eyes,  she  breathed 
a  prayer  to  the  good  God  ;  then,  not  knowing 
what  to  do  with  herself,  how  to  contain  her 
impatience,  she  sat  down  ;  she  got  up,  only  to 
sit  down  again.  One  might  see  that  she  was 
in  an  agony  of  suspense;  the  ground  seemed 
to  burn  the  soles  of  her  feet.  What  did  it  all 
mean?  She  was  beautiful;  she  had  even-thing 
that  heart  could  wish:  she  possessed  a  combin- 
ation of  charms  not  often  seen  in  this  lower 
world — delicate  erect  figure,  very  white  skin, 
black  hair,  and,  with  these,  an  eye  as  blue  as 


the  sky  itself.  Her  whole  appearance  was  so 
refined  that,  on  the  plains,  peasant  as  she  was, 
she  was  regarded  as  a  born  lady  by  her  peasant 
companions.  And  well  did  she  know  all  this, 
for  beside  her  little  bed  there  hung  a  bright  little 
mirror.  But  to-day  she  has  not  once  looked 
into  it.  Most  serious  matters  absorb  her 
thoughts ;  her  soul  is  strangely  stirred ;  at  the 
slightest  sound  she  changes  suddenly  from 
marble  hue  to  violet. 

Some  one  enters ;  she  looks  up ;  it  is  her 
friend  and  neighbour,  Annette.  At  the  first 
glance  you  could  not  fail  to  see  that  she  too 
was  in  trouble,  but  at  a  second  you  would  say 
— "It  is  very  manifest  that  the  evil,  whatever 
it  is,  only  circles  around  her  heart,  and  does 
not  take  root  there." 

"You  are  happy,  Annette,"  said  Martha; 
"speak;  have  the  lots  been  drawn?  have  they 
escaped?  is  he  free?" 

"  I  know  nothing  yet,"  replied  Annette ; 
"but  take  courage,  my  dear;  it  is  already 
noon;  we  shall  very  soon  know.  You  tremble 
like  a  jonquil,  your  face  frightens  me.  Sup- 
pose the  lot  should  fall  upon  Jacques,  and  he 
should  be  obliged  to  go  away;  you  would  die, 
perhaps?" 

"Ah!  I  cannot  tell." 

"  You  are  wrong,  my  friend.  Die  !  What 
a  baby  you  are.  I  love  Joseph.  If  he  has  to 
go,  I  should  be  sorry;  I  should  shed  a  few  tears; 
I  would  wait  for  his  return,  without  dying. 
No  young  man  ever  dies  for  a  girl;  not  a  bit 
of  it;  and  they  are  right.  There  is  truth  in 
the  couplet — 

" '  My  lover,  when  he  goes  away, 
Loses  far  more  than  I  who  stay.' 

A  truce  to  your  grief,  then.  Come,  if  you  feel 
equal  to  it,  let  us  try  our  luck  by  the  cards. 
/  did  this  morning,  and  it  all  came  out  right 
for  me;  so  it  will  for  you.  See  how  calm  I 
am;  come,  to  console  you,  let  us  see  what  the 
lucky  cards  will  say." 

So  the  buoyant  young  girl  makes  her  friend 
sit  down,  checks  for  a  moment  hor  own  wild 
spirits,  gracefully  spreads  a  small  piece  of 
shining  taffeta,  and  takes  the  cards  in  her 
hands.  The  suffering  heart  of  Martha  stops 
for  a  season  its  fierce  throbs.  She  gazes  with 
eager  eyes:  she  ceases  to  tremble;  she  is  in- 
spired with  hope.  Then  both  girls — the  light- 
hearted  Annette  and  the  loving  Martha — re- 
peat together  the  well-known  refrain — 

"Cards  so  beautiful  and  fair, 
Lighten  now  a  maiden's  care; 
Knave  of  Clubs  and  Queen  o 
To  our  cauae  propitious  prove." 


THE  STORY  OF  CRAZY  MARTHA. 


Ill 


One  after  another  the  cards  are  turned  up, 
placed  in  piles,  then  put  together  and  shuffled. 
Cut  them  three  times ;  it  is  done.  Ah !  a  good 
sign,  first  comes  a  king.  The  girls  are  a  per- 
fect picture — two  mouths  breathless  and  speech- 
less, four  eyes,  smiling  and  yet  awe-struck, 
follow  closely  the  motion  of  the  fingers.  Upon 
the  lips  of  Martha  a  sweet  smile  slowly  rests, 
like  a  fairy  flower.  The  queen  of  hearts  is 
turned  up;  then  the  knave  of  clubs.  If  now 
no  black  malignant  spade  appears,  Jacques 
will  be  saved.  Seven  spades  are  already  out; 
only  one  remains  in  the  pack;  there  is  nothing 
to  fear.  The  beautiful  dealer  is  smiling,  is 
joking — stop  !  like  a  grinning  skull  cast  into 
the  midst  of  a  festive  crowd,  the  queen  of 
spades  comes  up  to  announce  some  dire  misfor- 
tune ! 

Hark !  on  the  highway  the  noisy  drum 
strikes  in  like  a  mocking  laugh,  mingled  with 
the  strains  of  the  shrill  fife  and  wild  bursts  of 
song.  It  is  easy  to  guess  that  these  are  the 
happy  fellows  who  have  escaped  the  draft, 
whom  the  great  Moloch  of  war,  with  a  linger- 
ing touch  of  pity,  is  going  to  leave  to  the 
country.  Here  they  come  in  two  long  lines, 
dancing,  leaping,  each  one  wearing  in  his  hat 
his  lucky  number.  Soon  a  crowd  of  mothers 
gathers  around  them,  many  weeping  for  joy, 
and  some  for  grief. 

What  a  moment  for  the  two  young  girls 
whom  the  cards  have  just  smitten  with  sorrow! 
The  noisy  group  comes  nearer  still.  Martha, 
wishing  to  put  an  end  to  the  torturing  sus- 
pense, flies  to  the  little  window,  but  immed- 
iately recoils,  utters  a  faint  cry,  and  falls  cold 
and  fainting  beside  Annette,  who  is  herself 
shivering  with  fear.  The  cards  had  not  de- 
ceived them.  In  the  midst  of  the  lucky  crowd 
whose  lives  are  saved  to  their  country  stands 
Joseph.  Jacques  was  not  there;  he  had  drawn 
"number  3." 

Two  weeks  pass,  and  the  light-hearted 
Annette  steps  out  at  the  threshold  of  the  flower- 
bedecked  church,  fast  married  to  Joseph ;  while 
in  the  house  of  mourning,  Jacques,  the  un- 
happy conscript,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  a 
knapsack  on  his  shoulders,  bids  farewell  to  his 
betrothed  in  touching  words  as  she  stands  over- 
whelmed with  grief.  "  Martha,"  he  says, 
"they  compel  me  to  depart;  happiness  deserts 
us,  but  take  courage ;  men  come  back  from  the 
wars.  You  know  I  have  nothing,  no  father, 
no  mother:  I  have  only  you  to  love.  If  death 
spares  my  life,  it  belongs  to  you.  Let  us  hope, 
still  hope  for  the  happy  day  when  I  shall  lead 
you  to  the  marriage  altar  like  a  gift  of  love- 
flowers." 


II. 


A  great  torrow.— Martha  snatched  from  (he  tomb.  — The 
handsome  gtrl-mercluint. — Jacques  wiUjind  a.  rwul. 

The  beautiful  month  of  May,  whose  new 
birth  brings  universal  pleasure,  king  of  all  the 
months,  let  it  wear  the  crown,  and  surround 
itself  with  joys! — The  month  of  May  has  come 
again.  Upon  the  hill-side  and  in  the  valleys 
happy  hearts  unite  to  chant  its  praises ;  it 
comes  softly  and  sweetly,  and  like  lightning 
it  is  gone.  But,  while  it  lasts,  everywhere  is 
heard  the  sound  of  melodious  song ;  everywhere 
you  behold  happy  festive  groups  entwining  in 
the  joyous  dance. 

At  length  the  spring  is  past,  and  while  its 
pleasures  still  linger  in  the  groves  and  fields, 
in  yonder  little  cabin,  one  sweet  and  lonely 
voice  thus  moans  in  a  song  of  sorrow:  "The 
swallows  have  come  back;  up  there  are  my  two 
in  their  nest;  they  have  not  been  parted  as  we 
have.  Now  they  fly  down;  see,  I  can  put  my 
hand  upon  them.  How  sleek  and  pretty  they 
are;  they  still  have  upon  their  necks  the  rib- 
bons which  Jacques  tied  there  on  my  last 
birthday,  when  they  came  to  peck  from  our 
united  hands  the  little  golden  flies  we  had 
caught  for  them.  They  loved  Jacques.  Their 
little  eyes  are  looking  for  him  just  where  I  am 
sitting.  Ah !  you  may  circle  round  my  chair, 
poor  birds,  but  Jacques  is  no  longer  here.  I 
am  alone,  without  a  friend,  weeping  for  him, 
weary  too,  for  the  friendship  of  tears  fatigues 
itself.  But  stay  with  me ;  I  will  do  everything 
to  make  you  love  me.  Stay,  dear  birds  that 
Jacques  loved;  I  want  to  talk  to  you  of  him. 
They  seem  to  know  how  their  presence  consoles 
me.  They  kiss  each  other,  happy  little  things. 
Kiss,  a  long  kiss;  your  joy  is  balm  to  my  heart. 
I  love  them,  for  they  are  faithful  to  me,  as 
Jacques  also  is.  But  no  one  kills  swallows; 
men  only  kill  each  other.  Why  does  he  write 
no  more?  Mon  Dleu!  who  knows  where  he  is; 
I  always  feel  as  if  some  one  is  going  to  tell  me 
that  he  is  dead.  I  shudder;  that  terrible  fear 
chokes  my  heart.  Holy  Virgin,  take  it  away; 
the  fever  of  the  grave  is  burning  me  up;  and 
oh!  good  Mother  of  God,  I  want  to  live  if 
Jacques  still  lives!  Where  are  you,  beautiful 
swallows?  Ah!  my  grief  has  been  too  noisy; 
I  have  frightened  you  away.  Come  back,  and 
bring  me  happiness ;  I  will  mourn  more  softly. 
Stay  with  me,  birds  whom  Jacques  loved,  for 
I  must  talk  to  you  of  him." 

Thus,  day  after  day,  mourned  the  orphan 
girl  her  lover's  absence.  Her  old  uncle,  her 


112 


THE  STOEY  OF  CRAZY  MARTHA. 


only  guardian,  beheld  her  sorrow,  and  was 
grieved.  .She  .saw  him  weeping,  and  dissembled 
her  own  pain  to  cha.se  away  his  tears.  She 
tried  to  keep  her  troubles  from  the  world,  that 
frivolous,  heartless  world  which  is  ready  to 
find  evil  in  everything ;  which  laughed  at  her 
sorrow.-!,  and  had  no  sympathy  with  them.  At 
length,  when  All-Saint*'  Day  came  round,  they 
saw  two  wax  candles  burning  for  the  dying, 
on  the  Virgin's  altar,  and  when  the  priest  said: 
' '  Death  is  hovering  over  the  couch  of  a  young 
and  .suffering  girl :  good  souls,  pray  for  poor 
Martha,"  even'  one  bent  his  head  in  shame, 
and  out  of  every  heart  came  the  Patera  bathed 
iu  tears. 

But  she  will  not  die;  it  was  the  dark  hour 
before  the  dawn.  Grim  Death  may  fill  up  his 
new-made  grave.  Her  uncle,  at  her  bedside, 
ha*  said  but  one  word;  it  sinks  into  her  heart. 
That  sweet  word  has  brought  her  back  to  life; 
she  is  saved :  The  fire  cornes  back  to  her  eye, 
her  blood  begins  to  course  again  under  her 
white  skin.  Life  returns  in  great  tidal  waves 
of  light.  "Everything  is  ready,  my  child," 
Bays  her  smiling  uncle,  and  her  answer  is: 
"Yes,  let  us  work,  let  us  work."  Then,  to 
the  astonishment  of  every  one,  Martha  re- 
quickened,  lives  for  another  love, — the  love  of 
Money  f  She  craves  money,  she  is  a  miser, 
money  is  her  only  concern.  She  would  coin 
it  with  her  own  blood.  Well,  hard  work  will 
give  money  to  every  brave  hand,  and  Martha's 
hand  is  more  than  brave. 

Under  the  rustic  archway,  who  is  that  girl- 
merchant,  rousing  the  hamlet  with  her  chatter 
and  noise:  who  is  buying  and  selling  inces- 
santly? That  is  Martha;  how  ever}-  one  praises 
her,  so  good,  so  complaisant,  so  charming. 
Her  buyers  increase  in  numbers  like  a  rolling 
ball  of  snow.  Yesterday  she  had  twenty,  to- 
day forty.  Gold  pours  down  upon  her  little 
arcade.  Thus  a  year  passes.  Martha  is  happy 
while  she  works,  for  Jacques  is  not  dead.  No, 
he  has  been  seen  more  than  once  in  the  army. 
Sometimes  when  the  report  of  a  battle  arrives, 
her  arm  drops,  and  her  eye  loses  its  light;  but 
her  courage  soon  returns  if  rumour  makes  no 
mention  of  a  regiment  which  is  always  in  her 
thought*. 

One  day  her  uncle  says  to  her:  "  In  order  to 
attain  your  long-desired  happiness,  you  need 
a  thousand  pistoles,  and  you  will  soon  have 
them.  A  little  pile  soon  becomes  large.  We 
need  no^sell  the  cottage.  Look  at  your  money - 
br.x.  With  the  proceeds  of  my  vineyard,  and 
what  you  have  already  earned,  you  have  already 
more  than  half  the  num.  Have  patience  for 
•ix  months  more.  Why!  my  child,  happiness 


costs  time  and  labour  and  money.  You  have 
nearly  three-quarters.  Finish  the  good  work 
yourself.  I  am  content;  before  I  die  1  hope 
to  see  you  perfectly  happy. 

Alas!  the  poor  old  man  was  mistaken.  Two 
weeks  later,  death  closed  his  eyes,  and  Martha 
sat  in  the  churchyard,  weeping  upon  his  grave. 
There,  one  evening,  she  was  heard  to  murmur: 
"My  strength  is  exhausted;  sainted  spirit  of 
my  loving  uncle,  I  can  wait  no  longer;  forgive 
me;  the  good  priest  sanctions  the  act;"  and, 
without  delay,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  vil- 
lagers, furniture,  shop,  house,  all  that  she 
possesses,  change  hands.  She  sells  everything, 
except  a  gilded  cross,  and  the  rose-coloured 
dress  with  little  blue  flowers  in  which  Jacques 
loved  to  see  her.  She  had  wanted  silver,  the 
was  now  laden  with  gold ;  her  thousand  pistoles 
are  in  her  hands;  but  BO  young  and  inexperi- 
enced as  she  is,  what  is  she  going  to  do  with 
them?  "What  is  the  poor  child  going  to  do 
with  them  ?  "  do  yon  ask  ?  The  very  thought 
lacerates  my  heart.  She  goes  out;  she  seems, 
as  she  leaves  her  little  home,  an  impersonation 
of  the  angel  of  sorrow  slowly  rising  towards 
happiness,  which  is  beginning  to  smile  upon 
her  flight.  That  is  not  a  flash  of  lightning; 
it  is  her  little  foot  which  with  lightning  speed 
spurns  the  path.  She  enters  the  quiet  little 
house,  where  sits  a  man  with  hair  as  white  as 
snow;  it  is  the  priest,  who  welcomes  her  with 
an  affectionate  air.  "Good  father,"  she  cries, 
falling  on  her  knees,  "I  bring  you  my  alL 
Now  you  can  write  and  purchase  his  freedom. 
Don't  tell  him  who  it  is  that  buys  his  ransom; 
he  will  guess  soon  enough.  Don't  even  mention 
my  name,  and  don't  tremble  for  me.  I  have 
strength  in  my  arm.  I  can  work  for  a  living. 
Good  father,  have  pity;  bring  him  back  to  me ! " 


IIL 

The  country  priext — The  young  girC*  happine**.  — 
Jacrfufi  itfrtt. — Return  of  Jacywu. —  Wlw  teotild  have 
th'jughttif 

I  love  the  country  priest.  He  does  not  need, 
like  the  city  pastor,  in  order  to  make  men 
believe  in  the  good  God,  or  the  wicked  devil, 
to  exhaust  his  strength  in  proving,  with  the 
book  open  before  him,  that  there  is  a  paradise 
as  well  as  a  hell.  Around  him  all  men  believe, 
every  one  prays.  In  spite  of  this  they  sin, 
as  we  all  do  everywhere.  Let  him  however  but 
elevate  his  cross,  and  evil  bows  before  him;  the 
new-born  sin  is  nipped  in  the  bud.  From  his 
every-day  seat,  the  wooden  bench,  nothing 
escapes  his  sight.  His  bell  drives  far  off  the 


THE   STORY  OF  CRAZY  MARTHA. 


113 


hail  and  the  thunder.  His  eyes  are  always 
open  upon  his  flock.  The  sinner  evades  him: 
he  knows  it,  and  he  goes  in  search  of  the 
sinner.  For  offences  he  has  pardon,  for  griefs 
a  soothing  balm.  His  name  is  on  every  lip,  a 
blessed  name;  the  valleys  resound  with  it.  He 
is  called,  in  each  heart,  the  great  physician  for 
trouble.  And  this  is  the  reason  that  Martha 
went  to  him  with  hers,  and  found  a  balm. 
But  from  the  obscure  centre  of  his  little  parish, 
the  man  of  God  was  far  better  able  to  detect 
sin  and  drive  away  malignant  thoughts,  than 
to  find  the  nameless  soldier,  in  the  heart  of  an 
army,  who  had  not  written  a  word  of  inquiry 
or  information  for  three  years,  especially  when, 
to  the  sound  of  cymbal,  trumpets,  and  cannon, 
six  hundred  thousand  excited  Frenchmen  were 
proudly  marching  to  conquer  all  the  capitals 
of  Europe.  They  shattered  all  obstructions, 
they  put  to  flight  all  who  stood  against  them, 
and  only  stopped  to  take  breath  upon  the  foreign 
soil,  that  they  might  go  on  to  further  and 
greater  conquests. 

It  is  true  that  during  the  past  spring  Martha's 
uncle  had  written  often,  but  the  army  had  just 
then  made  a  triple  campaign;  Jacques,  they 
learned,  had  been  transferred  to  another  regi- 
ment. Some  one  had  seen  him  in  Prussia; 
another,  elsewhere  in  Germany.  Nothing 
definite  was  known  about  him.  He  had  no 
relatives,  for,  let  the  truth  be  told,  the  fine 
fellow  had  no  parents.  He  had  come  out  of 
that  asylum  where  a  throng  of  infants  live 
upon  the  public  pity,  which  takes  the  place  of 
a  mother.  As  a  boy  he  had  been  long  searching 
for  his  mother,  but  never  could  find  her.  He 
had  an  ardent  desire  to  be  loved,  and  as  he 
knew  he  was  loved  at  Lafitte,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  war,  he  would  have  lived  and  died  there. 

And  now,  leaving  the  good  priest  to  his 
benevolent  task,  let  us  turn  aside  into  a  very 
humble  cottage,  where  poor  Martha  is  hard  at 
work.  What  a  change!  Yesterday  she  had 
her  trousseau;  there  was  gold  in  her  wardrobe. 
To-day  she  has  nothing  but  her  stool,  a  thimble, 
a  needle-case,  and  a  spinning-wheel.  She  spins 
and  sews  incessantly.  We  need  not  lament 
that  she  is  tiring  her  fingers;  when  she  was 
rich,  she  wept;  now  that  she  is  poor,  she  smiles 
constantly.  Jacques  will  be  saved  for  a  long 
and  happy  life;  and  life,  liberty,  everything  he 
will  owe  to  her,  and  her  alone.  How  he  will 
love  her!  and  where  one  loves  and  is  loved, 
poverty  is  powerless.  How  happy  she  is;  the 
cup  of  her  future  is  crowned  with  honey ;  already 
has  her  heart  tasted  its  first,  rich,  overflowing 
drop.  Everything  is  flowering  around  her. 
Thus  she  works  on  from  week  to  week,  sipping 

VOL.    I. 


drops  of  honey  amid  waves  of  perfume.  Her 
wheel  whirls  without  ceasing,  and  hope  is  en- 
twining as  many  cloudless  days  in  the  future, 
as  her  bobbin  spins  out  armfuls  of  wool,  and 
her  needle  makes  points  in  the  cloth. 

You  may  be  sure  that  all  this  is  well  known 
in  the  meadow-lands.  All  the  people  are  now 
enlisted  in  her  cause.  In  the  clear  nights  she 
has  serenades,  and  garlands  of  flowers  are  hung 
upon  her  door.  In  the  morning  the  girls  come 
with  loving  eyes  to  give  her  little  presents  of 
sympathy  and  esteem. 

One  Sunday  morning,  the  dear  old  priest 
comes  to  her  after  mass,  his  face  Seaming  with 
joy,  and  in  his  right  hand  an  open  letter.  He 
is  trembling,  but  more  with  joy  than  with  age. 

"My  daughter,"  he  cries,  "Heaven  has 
blessed  thee  and  answered  my  prayers;  I  have 
found  him ;  he  was  in  Paris.  It  is  accomplished ; 
Jacques  is  free.  He  will  be  here  next  Sunday, 
and  he  has  not  a  suspicion  of  your  part  in  this 
matter.  He  thinks  that  his  mother  has  at  last . 
come  to  light ;  that  she  isrich,  and  has  purchased 
his  freedom.  Let  him  come,  and  when  he 
knows  that  he  owes  everything  to  you,  how 
much  you  have  done  for  him,  he  will  love  you 
more  than  ever,  more  than  any  one  except  God. 
My  dear  daughter,  the  day  of  your  reward  is 
about  to  dawn;  prepare  your  heart  for  it. 
Jacques  will  surely  come,  and  when  that  happy 
hour  arrives,  I  want  to  be  near  you.  I  want 
to  make  him  understand,  in  the  presence  of  all 
the  people,  how  happy  he  ought  to  be  in  being 
loved  by  such  an  angel  as  you. " 

We  are  told  that  blessed  spirits  in  paradise 
are  bathed  in  bliss  when  they  hear  the  harmon- 
ies of  heaven.  Such  is  the  joy  of  Martha  aa 
these  words  sink  into  her  heart. 

But  the  Sunday  has  arrived.  All  nature 
shines  in  green  and  gold  under  the  beautiful 
sun  of  June.  Crowds  are  singing  everywhere. 
1 1  is  a  double  festival  for  all.  The  clock  strikes 
noon :  leaving  the  holy  altar,  the  good  old  priest 
advances  with  the  loving,  pure-facet!  girl.  Her 
eyelids  drop  over  her  azure  eyes,  she  is  timid 
and  speechless;  but  an  inner  voice  cries  "happi- 
ness." The  crowd  gathers  around  her.  All  is 
grand  ;  you  would  say  that  the  whole  country- 
side is  awaiting  the  arrival  of  a  great  lord. 
Thus  marshalled,  they  go  forth  from  the  village, 
and  with  laughing  joy  take  their  post  at  the 
entrance  of  the  highway. 

There  is  nothing  to  be  seen  in  it;  nothing  at 
the  far  end  of  that  road-furrow;  nothing  but 
the  shadows  checkered  by  the  sunlight.  Sud- 
denly a  small  black  point  appears;  it  increases 
in  size,  it  moves,  it  is  a  man;  two  men,  two 
soldiers;  the  latter,  it  is  he!  How  well  he  looks; 


114 


THE  COMPLAIMT. 


how  he  has  grown  in  the  army!  Both  continue 
to  advance;  the  other, — who  is  he?  he  looks  like 
a  woman.  Ah !  it  is  a  woman ;  how  pretty  and 
graceful  she  is,  dressed  like  a  cantini&re.  A 
woman!  my  God.'  and  with  Jacques?  where  can 
she  oe  going?  Martha's  eyes  are  upon  her,  sad 
as  the  eyes  of  the  dead.  Even  the  priest,  who 
escorts  her,  is  trembling  all  over.  The  crowd 
is  dumb.  They  approach  still  nearer;  now 
they  are  only  twenty  paces  off,  smiling  and 
out  of  breath.  But  what  now !  Jacques  has 
suddenly  a  look  of  pain;  he  has  seen  Martha! 
.  .  .  Trembling,  aai.amed,  he  stops.  The 
priest  can  contain  himself  no  longer.  With 
the  strong  full  voice  with  which  he  confounds 
the  sinner,  he  cries.  "Jacques,  who  is  that 
woman?"  and,  like  a  criminal,  lowering  his 
head,  Jacques  replies,  "Mine,  M.  le  Cure, 
mine;  I  am  married." 

A  woman's  scream  is  heard;  the  priest  re- 
turning to  himself,  and  frightened  for  Martha, 
" My  daughter, "  he  said,  "Courage!  here  below 
we  all  must  suffer." 

But  Martha  does  not  even  sigh.  Everybody 
looks  at  her;  they  think  she  is  going  io  die. 
She  does  not  die,  she  even  seems  to  console 
herself.  She  curtsies  graciously  to  Jacques, 
and  then  bursts  out  into  a  wild  mad  laugh. 
Alas!  she  was  never  to  laugh  again  otherwise- 
the  poor  thing  is  mad.  At  the  words  which 
issued  from  the  lips  of  her  unfaithful  lover,  the 
poor  sufferer  had  at  once  lost  her  reason,  never 
to  regain  it. 

When  Jacques  learned  all,  he  fled  the  coun- 
try. They  say  that,  mad  with  remorse,  he  re- 
entered  the  army,  and,  like  a  lost  spirit  weary 
of  his  wretched  existence,  he  flung  it  away  at 
the  cannon's  mouth.  Be  that  as  it  may,  what 
is  true,  alas!  too  true!  is  that  Martha  escaped 
from  friendly  vigilance  one  night,  and  ever 
since,  for  thirty  years  past,  the  poor  idiot  has 
been  periodically  seen  in  our  village  stretching 
out  her  hands  for  our  charity.  In  Agen,  people 
said  as  she  passed,  "Martha  has  come  out 
again;  she  must  be  hungry."  They  knew 
nothing  about  her,  and  yet  every  one  loved  her. 
Only  the  children,  who  have  no  pity  for  any- 
thing, who  laugh  at  all  that  is  fad,  would  cry 
out,  "Martha,  a  soldier!"  when  she,  with  a 
mortal  fear  of  soldiers,  would  fly  at  the  sound. 

And  now  you  all  know  why  she  shuddered 
at  these  words.  I,  who  have  screamed  them 
after  her  more  than  a  hundred  times,  when  I 
heard  the  touching  story  of  her  life,  would  like 
to  cover  her  tattered  frock  with  kisses.  1  would 
like  to  ask  her  pardon  on  my  knees.  I  find 
nothing  but  a  tomb.  ...  I  cover  it  with 
flowers. 


THE   COMPLAINT. 

A   POEM   ATTRIBUTED   TO   CHATTEBTON. 
Addressed  to  Miss  P L ,  of  Bristol. 

Love,  lawless  tyrant  of  my  breast, 
When  will  my  passions  be  at  rest, 

And  in  soft  murmurs  roll — 
When  will  the  dove-ey'd  goddess,  Peace, 
Bid  black  despair  and  torment  cease, 

And  wake  to  joy  my  soul? 

Adieu!  ye  flow'r-bespangled  hills; 
Adieu !  ye  softly  purling  rills, 

That  through  the  meadows  play. 
Adieu !  the  cool  refreshing  shade, 
By  hoary  oaks  and  woodbines  made, 

Where  oft  with  joy  I  lay. 

No  more  beneath  your  boughs  I  hear, 
With  pleasure  unallay'd  by  fear, 

The  distant  Severue  roar — 
Adieu !  the  forest's  mossy  side 
Deck'd  out  in  Flora's  richest  pride: 

Ye  can  delight  no  more. 

Oft  at  the  solitary  hour 

When  Melancholy's  silent  pow'r 

Is  gliding  through  the  shade; 
"With  raging  madness  by  her  side, 
Whose  hands,  in  blood  and  murder  dy'd, 

Display  the  reeking  blade ; 

I  catch  the  echo  of  their  feet, 
And  follow  to  their  drear  retreat 

Of  deadliest  nightshade  wove; 
There,  stretch'd  upon  the  dewy  ground, 
Whilst  noxious  vapours  rise  around, 

I  sigh  my  tale  of  love. 

Oft  has  the  solemn  bird  of  night, 
When  rising  to  his  gloomy  flight, 

Unseen  against  me  fled ! 
Whilst  snakes  in  curling  orbs  uproll'd 
Bedrop'd  with  azure,  flame,  and  gold, 

Hurl'd  poison  at  my  head. 

O  say !  thou  best  of  womankind, 
Thou  mirac'e,  in  whom  we  find 

Wit,  charms,  and  sense  unite, 
Can  plagues  like  these  be  always  borne? 
No;  if  I  still  must  meet  your  scorn, 

I'll  seek  the  realms  of  night. 


1  This  poem  appeared  in  the  Universal  Magazine, 
November,  1769.  The  Rev.  W.  W.  Skeat,  whose 
thorough  knowledge  of  English  poetry  enables  him  to 
speak  with  authority,  says  that  the  poem  has  every 
claim  to  be  one  of  Chatterton's,  although,  it  is  not  in- 
cluded in  any  edition  of  his  work*. 


ENGLAND  AND  FRANCE. 


115 


THE  IMPRISONED  HUNTSMAN. 

My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood, 
My  idle  grayhouud  loathes  his  food, 
My  horse  is  weary  of  his  stall. 
And  I  am  sick  of  captive  thrall. 
I  wish  I  were  as  1  have  been, 
Hunting  the  hart  in  forests  green, 
With  bended  bow  and  bloodhound  free, 
For  that's  the  life  is  meet  for  me. 

I  hate  to  learn  the  ebb  of  time 

From  yon  dull  steeple's  drowsy  chime, 

Or  mark  it  as  the  sunbeams  crawl, 

Inch  after  inch  along  the  wall. 

The  lark  was  wont  my  matins  ring, 

The  sable  rook  my  vespers  sing ; 

These  towers,  although  a  king's  they  be, 

Have  not  a  hall  of  joy  for  me. 

No  more  at  dawning  morn  I  rise, 
And  sun  myself  in  Ellen's  eyes, 
Drive  the  fleet  deer  the  forests  through, 
And  homeward  wend  with  evening  dew, 
A  blithesome  welcome  blithely  meet, 
And  lay  my  trophies  at  her  feet, 
While  fled  the  eve  on  wings  of  glee, — 
That  life  is  lost  to  love  and  me ! 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


ENGLAND  AND  FRANCE. 

BY   DOROTHEA   JULIA   RAMSBOTTOM. 

Having  often  heard  travellers  lament  not 
having  put  down  what  they  call  tlie  inemory- 
billlous  of  their  journeys,  I  was  determined, 
while  I  was  on  my  tower,  to  keep  a  dairy  (so 
called  from  containing  the  cream  of  one's  in- 
formation), and  record  everything  which  re- 
curred to  me — therefore  I  begin  with  my 
departure  from  London. 

Resolving  to  take  time  by  the  firelock,  we 
left  Mountague-place  at  seven  o'clock,  by  Mr. 
Fulmer's  pocket  thermometer,  and  proceeded 
over  Westminster-bridge,  to  explode  the  Euro- 
pean continent. 

I  never  pass  Whitehall  without  dropping  a 
tear  to  the  memory  of  Charles  the  Second,  who 
was  decimated  after  the  rebellion  of  1745, 
opposite  the  Horse  Guards — his  memorable 
speech  to  Archbishop  Caxon  rings  in  my  ears 
whenever  I  pass  the  spot — I  reverted  my  head, 


and  affected  to  look  to  see  what  o'clock  it  was 
by  the  dial  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way. 

It  is  quite  impossible  not  to  notice  the  im- 
provements in  this  part  of  the  town ;  the  beauti- 
ful view  which  one  gets  of  Westminster  Hall, 
and  its  curious  roof,  after  which,  as  every- 
body knows,  its  builder  was  called  William 
Roofus. 

Amongst  the  lighter  specimens  of  modern 
architecture,  is  Ashley's  Ampletheatre,  on  your 
right,  as  you  cross  the  bridge  (which  was  built, 
Mr  Fulmer  told  me,  by  the  Court  of  Arches 
and  the  House  of  Peers).  In  this  ampletheatre 
there  are  equestrian  performances,  so  called 
because  they  are  exhibited  niyhtly — during  the 
season. 

It  is  quite  impossible  to  quit  this  'mighty 
maze,'  as  Lady  Hopkins  emphatically  calls 
London,  in  her  erudite  Essay  upon  Granite, 
without  feeling  a  thousand  powerful  sensations 
— so  much  wealth,  so  much  virtue,  so  much 
vice,  such  business  as  is  carried  on  within  its 
precincts,  such  influence  as  its  inhabitants 
possess  in  every  part  of  the  civilized  world — It 
really  exalts  the  mind  from  meaner  things, 
and  casts  all  minor  considerations  far  behind 
one. 

The  toll  at  the  Marsh-gate  is  ris  since  we 
last  come  through — it  was  here  we  were  to  have 
taken  up  Lavinia's  friend,  Mr.  Smith,  who  had 
promised  to  go  with  us  to  Dover;  but  we  found 
his  servant  instead  of  himself,  with  a  billy,  to 
say  he  was  sorry  he  could  not  come,  because 
his  friend  Sir  John  Somebody  wished  him  to 
stay  and  go  down  to  Poll  at  Lincoln.  I  have 
no  doubt  this  Poll,  whoever  she  may  be,  is  a 
very  respectable  young  woman :  but  mentioning 
her  by  her  Christian  name  only,  in  so  abrupt 
a  manner,  had  a  very  unpleasant  appearance 
at  any  rate. 

Nothing  remarkable  occurred  till  we  reached 
the  Obstacle  in  St.  George's  Fields,  where  our 
attention  was  arrested  by  those  great  institu- 
tions, the  "School  for  the  Indignant  Blind," 
and  the  "Misanthropic  Society"  for  making 
shoes,  both  of  which  claim  the  gratitude  of  the 
nation. 

At  the  corner  of  the  lane  leading  to  Peckham, 
I  saw  that  they  had  removed  the  Dollygraph, 
which  used  to  stand  upon  a  declivity  to  the 
right  of  the  road — the  dollygraphs  are  all  to 
be  superseded  by  Serampores. 

When  we  came  to  the  Green  Man  at  Black- 
heath,  we  had  an  opportunity  of  noticing  the 
errors  of  former  travellers,  for  the  heath  is  green, 
and  the  man  is  black:  Mr.  Fulmer  endeavoured 
to  account  for  tliip,.  by  saying,  that  Mr.  Col- 
umn has  discovered  that  Moors  being  black, 


116 


ENGLAND  AND  FRANCE. 


and  Heaths  being  a  kind  of  Moor,  he  looks 
upon  the  confusion  of  words  as  the  cause  of  the 
mistake. 

As  we  went  near  Woolwich  we  saw  at  a  dis- 
tance the  artillery  officers  on  a  common,  a 
firing  away  with  their  bombs  in  mortai-s  like 
anything. 

At  Dartford  they  make  gunpowder;  here  we 
changed  horses;  at  the  inn  we  saw  a  most 
beautiful  Rhoderick  Random  in  a  pot,  covered 
with  flowers;  it  is  the  finest  I  ever  saw,  except 
those  at  Dropmore. — (Note,  Rhododendron.) 

When  we  got  to  Rochester  we  went  to  the 
Crown  Inn,  and  had  a  cold  collection:  the 
charge  was  absorbent — I  had  often  heard  my 
poor  dear  husband  talk  of  the  influence  of  the 
Crown,  and  a  Bill  of  Wrights,  but  I  had  no 
idea  what  it  really  meant  till  we  had  to  pay 
one. 

As  we  passed  near  Chatham  I  saw  several 
Pitts,  and  Mr.  Fulmer  showed  me  a  great  many 
buildings — I  believe  he  said  they  were  fortyfi- 
cations ;  but  I  think  there  must  have  been  near 
fifty  of  them.  He  also  showed  us  the  Lines  at 
Chatham,  which  I  saw  quite  distinctly,  with 
the  clothes  drying  on  them.  Rochester  was 
remarkable,  in  King  Charles'  time,  for  being  a 
very  witty  and  dissolute  place,  as  I  have  read 
in  books. 

At  Canterbury  we  stopped  ten  minutes,  to 
visit  all  the  remarkable  buildings  and  curio- 
sities in  it,  and  about  its  neighbourhood.  The 
church  is  beautiful:  when  Oliver  Cromwell 
conquered  William  the  Third,  he  perverted  it 
into  a  stable — the  stalls  are  still  standing. 
The  old  Virgin  who  showed  us  the  church  wore 
buckskin  breeches  and  powder;  he  said  it  was 
an  archypiscopal  sea;  but  I  saw  no  sea,  nor  do 
I  think  it  possible  he  could  see  it  either,  for  it 
is  at  least  seventeen  miles  off.  We  saw  Mr. 
Thomas  a  Beckett's  tomb — my  poor  husband 
was  extremely  intimate  with  the  old  gentleman, 
and  one  of  his  nephews,  a  very  nice  man,  who 
lives  near  Golden  Square,  dined  with  us  twice, 
I  think,  in  London; — in  Trinity  Chapel  is  the 
monument  of  Eau  de  Cologne,  just  as  it  is 
now  exhibiting  at  the  Diarrea  in  the  Regent's 
Park. 

It  was  late  when  we  got  to  Dover:  we  walked 
about  while  our  dinner  was  preparing,  looking 
forward  to  our  snug  tete-a-tete  of  three.  We 
went  to  look  at  the  sea;  so  called,  perhaps, 
from  the  uninterrupted  view  one  has,  when 
upon  it.  It  was  very  curious  to  see  the  locks, 
to  keep  in  the  water  here,  and  the  keys,  which 
are  on  each  side  of  them  all  ready,  I  suppose, 
to  open  them  if  they  were  wanted. 

Mr.  Fulmer  looked  at  a  high  place,  and 


talked  of  Shakspeare,  and  said  out  of  his  own 
head  these  beautiful  lines: 

"  Half  way  down 

Hangs  one  that  gathers  camphire ;  dreadful  trade." 

This,  I  think  it  but  right  to  say,  I  did  not 
myself  see. 

"  Methinks  he  seems  110  bigger  than  his  head, 
The  fishermen  that  walk  upon  the  beach 
Appear  like  mice." 

This,  again,  I  cannot  quite  agree  to:  for 
where  we  stood,  they  looked  exactly  like  men, 
only  smaller;  -which  I  attribute  to  the  effect  of 
distance — ajid  then  Mr.  Fulmer  said  this: 

-"  And  yon  tall  anchoring  bark 


Diminished  to  her  cock — her  cock  a  boy  I" 

This  latter  part  I  do  not  in  the  least  under- 
stand, nor  what  Mr.  Fulmer  meant  by  cock  a 
boy—  however,  Lavinia  seemed  to  comprehend 
it  all;  for  she  turned  up  her  eyes,  and  said 
something  about  the  immortal  bird  of  heaven; 
so  I  suppose  they  were  alluding  to  the  eagles, 
which  doubtless  build  their  aviaries  in  that 
white  mountain. — (Immortal  Bard  of  Avon, 
the  lady  means.) 

After  dinner  we  read  the  Paris  Guide,  and 
looked  over  the  list  of  all  the  people  who  had 
been  incontinent  during  the  season,  whose 
names  are  all  put  down  in  a  book  at  the  inn, 
for  the  purpose — we  went  to  rest  much  fatigued, 
knowing  that  we  should  be  obliged  to  get  up 
early,  to  be  ready  for  embrocation  in  the  packet 
in  the  morning. 

We  were,  however,  awake  with  the  owl,  and 
a  walking  away  before  eight ;  we  went  to  see 
the  castle,  which  was  built,  the  man  told  us, 
by  Seizer,  so  called,  I  conclude,  from  seizing 
whatever  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  ;  the  man 
said,  moreover,  that  he  had  invaded  Britain 
and  conquered  it ;  upon  which  I  told  him,  that 
if  he  repeated  such  a  thing  in  my  presence 
again,  I  should  write  to  Mr.  Peel  about  him. 

We  saw  the  inn  where  Alexander,  the  auto- 
graph of  all  the  Russias,  lived  when  he  was 
here ;  and  as  we  were  going  along  we  met 
twenty  or  thirty  dragons,  mounted  on  horses, 
and  the  ensign  who  commanded  them  was  a 
friend  of  Mr.  Fulmer's ;  he  looked  at  Lavinia, 
and  seemed  pleased  with  her  Tooting  assembly 
— he  was  quite  a  sine  qua  non  of  a  man.  and 
wore  tips  on  his  lips,  like  Lady  Hopkins' 
poodle. 

I  heard  Mr.  Fulmer  say  he  was  a  son  of 
Mam ;  he  spoke  it  as  if  everybody  knew  hlo 
father ;  so  I  suppose  he  must  be  the  son  of  the 


ENGLAND  AND  FRANCE. 


117 


poor  gentleman  who  was  so  barbarously  mur- 
dered some  years  ago  near  Ratcliffe  Highway ; 
if  he  is,  he  is  uncommon  genteel. 

At  twelve  o'clock  we  got  into  a  boat  and 
rowed  to  the  packet ;  it  was  very  fine  and  clear 
for  the  season,  and  Mr.  Fulmer  said  he  should 
not  dislike  pulling  Lavinia  about  all  the  morn- 
ing. This,  I  believe,  was  a  naughtycal  phrase, 
which  I  did  not  rightly  comprehend ;  because 
Mr.  F.  never  offered  to  talk  in  that  way  on 
shore  to  either  of  us. 

The  packet  is  not  a  parcel,  as  I  imagined, 
in  which  we  were  to  be  made  up  for  exporta- 
tion, but  a  boat  of  considerable  size ;  it  is  called 
a  cutter — why,  I  do  not  know,  and  did  not 
like  to  ask.  It  was  very  curious  to  see  how  it 
rolled  about ;  however,  I  fell  quite  mal-apropos; 
and,  instead  of  exciting  any  of  the  soft  sensi- 
bilities of  the  other  sex,  a  great  unruly  man, 
who  held  the  handle  of  the  ship,  bid  me  lay 
hold  of  a  companion,  and  when  I  sought  his 
arm  for  protection,  he  introduced  me  to  a  ladder, 
down  which  I  ascended  into  the  cabin,  one  of 
the  most  curious  places  I  ever  beheld,  where 
ladies  and  gentlemen  are  put  upon  shelves, 
like  books  in  a  library,  and  where  tall  men  are 
doubled  up  like  boot-jacks  before  they  can  be 
put  away  at  all. 

A  gentleman  in  a  hairy  cap,  without  his 
coat,  laid  me  perpendicularly  on  a  mattress, 
with  a  basin  by  my  side,  and  said  that  was  my 
birth ;  I  thought  it  would  have  been  my  death, 
for  I  never  was  so  indisposed  in  all  my  life. 
I  behaved  extremely  ill  to  a  very  amiable 
middle-aged  gentleman,  with  a  bald  head,  who 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  attending  upon  his 
wife,  in  the  little  hole  under  me. 

There  was  no  symphony  to  be  found  among 
the  tars  (so  called  from  their  smell),  for  just 
before  we  went  off  I  heard  them  throw  a  painter 
overboard,  and  directly  after,  they  called  out 
to  one  another  to  hoist  up  an  ensign.  I  was 
too  ill  to  inquire  what  the  poor  young  gentle- 
man had  done ;  but,  after  I  came  up  stairs,  I 
did  not  see  his  body  hanging  anywhere,  so  I 
conclude  they  had  cut  him  down.  I  hope  it 
was  not  young  Mr.  Marr,  a  venturing  after  my 
Lavy. 

I  was  quite  shocked  to  find  what  democrats 
the  sailors  are:  they  seem  to  hate  the  nobility, 
and  especially  the  law-lords.  The  way  I  dis- 
covered this  apathy  of  theirs  to  the  nobility 
was  this:  the  very  moment  we  lost  sight  of 
England  and  were  close  to  France,  they  began, 
one  and  all,  to  swear  first  at  the  peer  and  then 
at  the  bar,  in  such  gross  terms,  as  made  my 
very  blood  run  cold. 

I  was  quite  pleased  to  eee  Lavinia  sitting 


with  Mr.  Fulmer  in  the  travelling  carriage  on 
the  outside  of  the  packet.  But  Lavinia  af- 
forded great  proo&  of  her  good  bringing-up, 
by  commanding  her  feelings.  It  is  curious 
what  could  have  agitated  the  billiary  ducks  of 
my  stomach,  because  I  took  every  precaution 
which  is  recommended  in  different  books  to 
prevent  ill-disposition.  I  had  some  mutton- 
chops  at  breakfast,  some  Scotch  marmalade  on 
bread  and  butter,  two  eggs,  two  cups  of  coffee, 
and  three  of  tea,  besides  toast,  a  little  fried 
whiting,  some  potted  charr,  and  a  few  shrimps; 
and  after  breakfast,  I  took  a  glass  of  warm 
white  wine  negus  and  a  few  oysters,  which 
lasted  me  till  we  got  into  the  boat,  when  I 
began  eating  gingerbread-nuts  all  the  way  to 
the  packet,  and  then  was  persuaded  to  take  a 
glass  of  bottled  porter,  to  keep  everything  snug 
and  comfortable. 

When  we  came  near  the  French  shore,  a  batto 
(which  is  much  the  same  as  a  boat  in  England) 
came  off  to  us,  and  to  my  agreeable  surprise, 
an  Englishman  came  into  our  ship;  and  I 
believe  he  was  a  man  of  great  consequence,  for 
I  overheard  him  explaining  some  dreadful 
quarrel  which  had  taken  place  in  our  Royal 
Family. 

He  said  to  the  master  of  our  ship,  that  owing 
to  the  Prince  Leopold's  having  run  foul  of  the 
Duchess  of  Kent  while  she  was  in  stays,  the 
Duchess  had  missed  Deal.  By  which  I  con- 
clude it  was  a  dispute  at  cards:  however,  I 
want  to  know  nothing  of  state  secrets,  or  I 
might  have  heard  a  great  deal  more,  because 
it  appeared  that  the  Duchess'  head  was  con- 
siderably injured  in  the  scuffle. 

I  was  very  much  distressed  to  see  that  a  fat 
gentleman  who  was  in  the  ship,  had  fallen  into 
a  fit  of  perplexity  by  over-reaching  himself — 
he  lay  prostituted  upon  the  floor,  and  if  it  had 
not  been  that  we  had  a  doctor  in  the  ship,  who 
immediately  opened  his  temporary  artery  and 
his  jocular  vein,  with  a  lancelot,  which  he  had 
in  his  pocket,  I  think  we  should  have  seen  his 
end. 

It  was  altogether  a  most  moving  spectacle: 
he  thought  himself  dying,  and  all  his  anxiety 
in  the  midst  of  his  distress  was  to  be  able  to 
add  a  crocodile  to  his  will,  in  favour  of  his 
niece,  about  whom  he  appeared  very  sangui- 
nary. 

It  was  quite  curious  to  see  the  doctor  flea- 
bottomize  the  patient,  which  he  did  without 
any  accident,  although  it  blew  a  perfect  harrico 
at  the  time.  I  noticed  two  little  children,  who 
came  out  of  the  boat  with  hardly  any  clothes 
on  them,  speakin?  French  like  anything;  a 
proof  of  the  superior  education  given  to  the 


118 


ENGLAND  AND  FRANCE. 


poor  in  France,  to  that  which  they  get  in 
England  from  Doctor  Bell  of  Lancaster. 

When  we  landed  at  Callous,  we  were  ex- 
tremely well  received,  and  I  should  have  en- 
joyed the  sight  very  much,  but  Mr.  Fulmer, 
and  another  gentleman  in  the  batto,  kept 
talking  of  nothing  but  how  turkey  and  grease 
disagreed  with  each  other,  which,  in  the  then 
state  of  my  stomach,  was  far  from  agreeable. 

We  saw  the  print  of  the  foot  of  Louis  Desweet, 
the  French  king,  where  he  first  stepped  when 
he  returned  to  his  country :  he  must  be  a  pro- 
digious heavy  man,  to  have  left  such  a  deep 
mark  in  the  stone;  we  were  surrounded  by 
Commissioners,  who  were  so  hospitable  as  to 
press  us  to  go  to  their  houses  without  any  cere- 
mony. Mr.  Fulmer  showed  our  passports  to  a 
poor  old  man,  with  a  bit  of  red  ribbon  tied  to 
his  button-hole,  and  we  went  before  the  mayor, 
who  is  no  more  like  a  mayor  than  my  foot-boy. 

Here  they  took  a  subscription  of  our  persons, 
and  one  of  the  men  said  that  Lavinia  had  a 
jolly  manton,  at  which  the  clerks  laughed,  and 
several  of  them  said  she  was  a  jolly  feel,  which 
I  afterwards  understood  meant  a  pretty  girl; 
I  misunderstood  it  for  fee,  which,  being  in  a 
public  office,  was  a  very  natural  mistake. 

We  went  then  to  a  place  they  call  the  Do- 
Anne,  where  they  took  away  the  poll  of  my 
baruch;  I  was  very  angry  at  this,  but  they  told 
me  we  were  to  travel  in  Lemonade  with  a  biddy, 
which  I  did  not  understand,  but  Mr.  Fulmer 
was  kind  enough  to  explain  it  to  me  as  we  went 
to  the  hotel,  which  is  in  a  narrow  street,  and 
contains  a  garden  and  court-yard. 

I  left  it  to  Mr.  Fulmer  to  order  dinner,  for 
I  felt  extremely  piquant,  as  the  French  call  it, 
and  a  very  nice  dinner  it  was — we  had  a  purey, 
which  tasted  very  like  soup :  one  of  the  men 
said  it  was  made  from  leather,  at  least,  so  I 
understood,  but  it  had  quite  the  flavour  of 
hare;  I  think  it  right  here  to  caution  travellers 
against  the  fish  at  this  place,  which  looks  very 
good,  but  which  I  have  reason  to  believe  is 
very  unwholesome,  for  one  of  the  waiters  called 
it  poison  while  speaking  to  the  other:  the  fish 
was  called  marine  salmon,  but  it  appeared  like 
veal  cutlets. 

They  are  so  fond  of  Buonaparte  still,  that 
they  call  the  table-cloths  Najys,  in  compliment 
to  him — this  I  remarked  to  myself,  but  said 
nothing  about  it  to  anybody  else,  for  fear  of 
consequences. 

One  of  the  waiters  who  spoke  English,  asked 
me  if  I  would  have  a  little  Berg.imi.  which 
surprised  me,  till  Mr.  Fulmer  said,  it  was  the 
wine  he  was  handing  about,  when  I  refused  it, 
preferring  to  take  a  glass  of  Bucephalus. 


When  we  had  dined  we  had  some  coffee, 
which  is  here  called  Cabriolet;  after  which, 
Mr.  Fulmer  asked  if  we  would  have  a  chasse, 
which  I  thought  meant  a  hunting  party,  and 
said  I  was  afraid  of  going  into  the  fields  at 
that  time  of  night — but  I  found  chasse  was  a 
lickure  called  cure  a  sore  (from  its  healing 
qualities,  I  suppose),  and  very  nice  it  was — 
after  we  had  taken  this,  Mr.  Fulmer  went  out 
to  look  at  the  jolly  feels  in  the  shops  of  Callous, 
which  I  thought  indiscreet  in  the  cold  air; 
however,  I  am  one  as  always  overlooks  the 
little  piccadillies  of  youth. 

When  we  went  to  accoucher  at  night,  I  was 
quite  surprised  in  not  having  a  man  for  a 
chambermaid;  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
entire  difference  of  the  style  of  furniture,  the 
appearance  of  the  place,  and  the  language  and 
dress  of  the  attendants,  I  should  never  have 
discovered  that  we  had  changed  our  country 
in  the  course  of  the  day. 

In  the  morning  early  we  left  Callous  with 
the  Lemonade,  which  is  Shafts,  with  a  very 
tall  post-boy,  in  a  violet-coloured  jacket, 
trimmed  with  silver;  he  rode  a  little  horse, 
which  is  called  a  biddy,  and  wore  a  nobbed 
tail,  which  thumped  against  his  back  like  a 
patent  self-acting  knocker.  We  saw,  near 
Bullion,  Buonaparte's  conservatory,  out  of 
which  he  used  to  look  at  England  in  former 
days. 

Nothing  remarkable  occurred  till  we  met  a 
courier  a  travelling,  Mr.  Fulmer  said,  with 
despatches;  these  men  were  called  couriers  im- 
mediately after  the  return  of  the  Bonbons,  in 
compliment  to  the  London  newspaper,  which 
always  wrote  in  their  favour.  At  Montrule, 
Mr.  Fulmer  showed  me  Sterne's  Inn,  and  there 
he  saw  Mr.  Sterne  himself,  a  standing  at  the 
door,  with  a  French  cocked  hat  upon  his  head, 
over  a  white  night-cap.  Mr.  Fulmer  asked  if 
he  had  any  becauses  in  his  house :  but  he  said 
no;  what  they  were  I  do  not  know  to  this  mo- 
ment. 

It  is  no  use  describing  the  different  places 
on  our  raut,  because  Paris  is  the  great  object 
of  all  travellers,  and  therefore  I  shall  come  to 
it  at  once — it  is  reproached  by  a  revenue  of 
trees ;  on  the  right  of  which  you  see  a  dome, 
like  that  of  Saint  Paul's,  but  not  so  large. 
Mr.  Fulmer  told  me  it  was  an  invalid,  and  it 
did  certainly  look  very  yellow  in  the  distance; 
on  the  left  you  perceive  Mont  Martyr,  so  called 
from  the  number  of  windmills  upon  it. 

I  was  very  much  surprised  at  the  height  of 
the  houses,  and  the  noise  of  the  carriages  in 
Paris:  and  was  delighted  when  we  got  to  our 
hotel,  which  is  called  Wag  Ram;  why,  I  did 


ENGLAND  AND  FRANCE. 


119 


not  like  to  inquire;  it  is  just  opposite  the  Royal 
Timber-yard,  which  is  a  fine  building,  the 
name  of  which  is  cut  in  stone — Timbre  Royal. 

The  hotel  which  I  have  mentioned  is  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Pay,  so  called  from  its  being  the 
dearest  part  of  the  town.  At  one  end  of  it  is 
the  place  Fumdum,  where  there  is  a  pillow  as 
high  as  the  Trojan's  Pillow  at  Rome,  or  the 
pompous  in  Egypt;  this  is  a  beautiful  object, 
and  is  made  of  all  the  guns,  coats,  waistcoats, 
hats,  boots,  and  belts  which  belonged  to  the 
French  who  were  killed  by  the  cold  in  Prussia 
at  the  fire  of  Moscow! 

At  the  top  of  the  pillow  is  a  small  apartment, 
which  they  call  a  pavilion,  and  over  that  a 
white  flag,  which  I  concluded  to  be  hoisted  as 
a  remembrance  of  Buonaparte,  being  very  like 
the  table-cloths  I  noticed  at  Callous. 

We  lost  no  time  in  going  into  the  gardens 
of  the  Tooleries,  where  we  saw  the  statutes  at 
large  in  marvel :  here  we  saw  Mr.  Backhouse 
and  Harry  Edney,  whoever  they  might  be, 
and  a  beautiful  grope  of  Cupid  and  Physic, 
together  with  several  of  the  busks  which  Lavy 
has  copied,  the  original  of  which  is  in  the 
Vaccuum  at  Rome,  which  was  formerly  an 
office  for  government  thunder,  but  is  now  re- 
duced to  a  stable  where  the  pope  keeps  his 
bulls. 

Travellers  like  us,  who  are  mere  birds  of 
prey,  have  no  time  to  waste,  and  therefore  we 
determined  to  see  all  we  could  in  eacli  day,  so 
we  went  to  the  great  church,  which  is  called 
Naughty  Dam,  where  we  saw  a  priest  doing 
something  at  an  altar.  Mr.  Fulmer  begged 
me  to  observe  the  knave  of  the  church,  but  I 
thought  it  too  hard  to  call  the  man  names  in 
his  own  country,  although  Mr.  Fulmer  said 
he  believed  he  was  exercising  the  evil  spirits 
in  an  old  lady  in  a  black  cloak. 

It  was  a  great  day  at  this  church,  and  we 
stayed  for  mass,  so  called  from  the  crowd  of 
people  who  attend  it — the  priest  was  very  much 
incensed — we  waited  out  the  whole  ceremony; 
and  heard  Tedeum  sung,  which  occupied  three 
hours. 

We  returned  over  the  Pont  Neuf,  so  called 
from  being  the  north  bridge  in  Paris,  and  here 
we  saw  a  beautiful  image  of  Henry  Carter ;  it 
is  extremely  handsome,  and  quite  green — I 
fancied  I  saw  a  likeness  to  the  Cartel's  of  Ports- 
mouth; but  if  it  is  one  of  his  family,  his  pos- 
teriors are  very  much  diminished  in  size  and 
figure. 

A  beautiful  statute  of  Apollo  with  the  Hypo- 
crite pleased  me  very  much,  and  a  Fawn,  which 
looks  like  a  woman,  done  by  Mons.  Praxytail, 
a  French  stone-mason,  is  really  curious. 


A  picture  of  the  Bicknells  is,  I  suppose,  a 
family  grope;  but  the  young  women  appeared 
tipsy,  which  is  an  odd  state  to  be  drawn  in. 
The  statute  of  Manylaws  is  very  fine,  and  so 
is  Cupid  and  Physic,  different  from  the  one 
which  I  noticed  before. 

Mr.  Fulmer  showed  us  some  small  old  black 
pictures,  which  I  did  not  look  at  much,  because 
he  told  us  they  were  Remnants,  and  of  course 
very  inferior.  A  fine  painting,  by  Carlo  my 
Hearty,  pleased  me;  and  we  saw  also  some- 
thing, by  Sail  Vatarosa,  a  lady,  who  was  some- 
how concerned  with  the  little  woman  I  have 
seen  at  Peckham  Fair,  in  former  day«,  called 
Lady  Morgan. 

Mr.  Fulmer  proposed  that  we  should  go  and 
dine  at  a  tavern  called  Very — because  every- 
thing is  very  good  there ;  and  accordingly  we 
went,  and  I  never  was  so  malapropos  in  my 
life:  there  were  two  or  three  ladies  quite  ia 
nubibus ;  but  when  I  came  to  look  at  the  bill 
of  fare,  I  was  quite  anileated,  for  I  perceived 
that  Charlotte  de  Pommes  might  be  sent  for 
one  shilling  and  twopence,  and  Patty  de  Veau 
for  half-a-crown.  I  desired  Mr.  Fulmer  to  let 
us  go;  but  he  convinced  me  there  was  no  harm 
in  the  place,  by  showing  me  a  dignified  clergy- 
man of  the  Church  of  England  and  his  wife,  a 
eating  away  like  anything. 

We  had  a  voulez  vous  of  fowl,  and  some 
sailor's  eels,  which  were  very  nice,  and  some 
pieces  of  crape,  so  disguised  by  the  sauce  that 
nobody  who  had  not  been  told  what  it  was, 
would  have  distinguished  them  from  pancakes; 
after  the  sailor's  eels,  we  had  some  pantaloon 
cutlets,  which  were  savoury :  but  I  did  not  like 
the  writing  paper;  however,  as  it  was  a  French 
custom,  I  eat  every  bit  of  it ;  they  call  sparrow- 
grass  here  asperge,  I  could  not  find  out  why. 

If  I  had  not  seen  what  wonderful  men  the 
French  cooks  are,  who  actually  stew  up  shoes 
with  partridges,  and  make  very  nice  dishes 
too,  I  never  could  have  believed  the  influence 
they  have  in  the  politics  of  the  country :  every- 
thing is  now  decided  by  the  cooks,  who  make 
no  secret  of  their  feelings,  and  the  party  who 
are  still  for  Buonaparte  call  themselves  traitors, 
while  those  who  are  partizans  of  the  Bonbons 
are  termed  Restaurateurs,  or  friends  of  the 
Restoration. 

After  dinner,  a  French  monsheur,  who,  I 
thought,  was  a  waiter,  for  he  had  a  bit  of  red 
ribbon  at  his  button-hole,  just  the  same  as  one 
of  the  waiters  had,  began  to  talk  to  Mr.  Fulmer, 
and  it  was  agreed  we  should  go  to  the  play — 
they  talked  of  Racing  and  Cornhill,  which 
made  me  think  the  monsheur  had  been  in 
England;  however,  it  was  arranged  that  we 


120 


A  GARDEN  REVERIE. 


were  to  go  and  see  Andrew  Mackay  at  the 
Francay,  or  Jem  Narse,  or  the  Bullvards;  but 
at  last  it  was  decided  unanimously,  crim.  con. 
that  we  should  go  to  see  Jem  Narse,  and  so 
we  went — but  I  never  saw  the  man  himself 
after  all. 

A  very  droll  person,  with  long  legs  and  a 
queer  face,  sung  a  song,  which  pleased  me  very 
much,  because  I  understood  the  end  of  it  per- 
fect!}": it  was  "tal  de  lal  de  lal  de  lal,"  and 
sounded  quite  like  English.  After  he  had  done, 
although  everybody  laughed,  the  whole  house 
called  out  "beast,  beast,"  and  the  man  not- 
withstanding was  foolish  enough  to  sing  it  all 
over  again. 

THEODORE  HOOK. 


A  GARDEN  REVERIE.* 

BY  PHILIP  BOURKK  MARSTON. 

I  hear  the  sweeping  fitful  breeze 

This  early  night  in  June; 
I  hear  the  rustling  of  the  trees 

That  had  no  voice  at  noon : 
Clouds  brood,  and  rain  will  soon  come  down, 
To  gladden  all  the  panting  town 
With  the  cool  melody  that  beats 
Upon  the  busy  dusty  streets. 

But  in  this  space  of  narrow  ground 

We  call  a  garden  here  — 
Because  less  loudly  falls  the  sound 

Of  traffic  on  the  ear ; 
Because  its  faded  grass-plot  shows 
One  hawthorn  tree,  which  each  May  blows, 
Whereon  the  birds  in  early  spring 
At  sun- dawn  and  at  sun-down  sing — 

I  muse  alone.     A  rose-tree  twines 

About  the  brown  brick  wall, 
Which  strives,  when  summer's  glory  shines, 

To  gladden  at  its  festival, 
Yet  lets  upon  the  path  beneath 
Such  pale  leaves  drop  as  I  would  wreathe 
Around  a  portrait  that  to  me 
Is  all  my  soul's  divinity. 

•From  Song-Tide,  and  other  Poe>»».  London,  1871. 
This  is  the  first  volume  of  a  gentleman  who  is  evidently 
destined  to  hold  a  high  place  in  the  realms  of  poetry. 
Critics  have  been  unanimous  in  awarding  high  |>rai.-e 
to  the  work.  The  Pall  Stall  Gnzfttr  says:— "There  is 
much  in  these  poems  that  impresses  us  with  the  force 
cf  real  feeling  and  the  grace  of  a^i  esthetic  life." 


A  face  in  no  wise  proud  or  grand, 
But  strange,  and  sad,  and  fair ; 

A  maiden  twining  round  her  hand 
A  tress  of  golden  hair  ; 

While  in  her  deep  pathetic  eyes 

The  light  of  coming  trouble  lies, 

As  on  some  silent  sea  and  warm 

The  shadow  of  a  coming  storm. 

From  those  still  lips  shall  no  more  flow 

The  tones  that,  in  excess 
Of  tremulous  love,  touched  more  on  woe 

Thau  quiet  happiness, 
When  my  arms  strained  her  in  a  grasp 
That  sought  her  very  soul  to  clasp, 
When  my  hand  pressed  that  hand  most  fair 
That  holds  but  now  a  tress  of  hair. 

How  look,  this  breezy  summer  night, 

The  places  that  we  knew 
When  all  the  hills  were  flushed  with  light 

And  July  seas  were  blue? 
Does  the  wind  eddy  through  our  wood 
As  through  this  garden  solitude? 
Do  the  same  trees  their  branches  tt»ss 
The  undulating  wind  aaross? 

What  feet  tread  paths  that  now  no  more 

Our  feet  together  tread? 
How  in  the  twilight  looks  the  shore? 

Is  -still  the  sea  outspread 
Beneath  the  sky,  a  silent  plain 
Of  silent  lights  that  wax  and  wane? 
What  ships  go  sailing  by  the  strand 
Of  that  fair  consecrated  laud? 

How  hard  it  is  to  realize 

That  I  no  more  shall  hear 
The  music  of  thy  low  replies, 

As  those  deep  eyes  and  clear 
Once  looked  in  my  faint  eyes  uutil 
I  felt  the  burning  colour  fill 
My  face,  because  my  spirit  caught 
In  that  long  gaze  thine  inmost  thought. 

Alas !  what  voice  shall  now  reply? 

Not  thine,  arrested  gale 
That  'neath  the  dark  and  pregnant  sky 

Subsidest  to  a  wail. 
On  a  dusty  city,  silent  plain. 
And  on  thy  village  grave  the  rain 
Comes  down,  while  I  to-night  shall  jest 
And  hide  a  secret  in  my  breast. 


KABAK. 


121 


OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  hay*  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
Iii  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school  days, 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies, 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  oJd  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man; 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left,  my  friend  abruptly ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  laces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood; 
Earth  seem'd  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother. 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces— 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  all  are  departed; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


KABAK. 

AN   EASTERN   TALE. 

In  the  vicinity  of  the  famous  city  of  Bagdad, 
which  standeth  on  the  green  and  winding 
Tigris,  like  a  precious  jewel  on  the  back  of  a 
coiling  serpent,  dwelt  Kabak,  the  woodcutter, 
as  good  a  Mussulman  as  ever  stepped  out  of  a 
sandal  into  a  mosque,  or  indulged  in  the  mas- 
tication of  opium;  and  was  particularly  re- 
markable for  the  adroit  and  dexterous  manner 
in  which  he  handled  his  bill;  although  this  is 
not  so  much  to  be  wondered  at  when  it  is  re- 
membered that,  like  the  vulture — he  used  his 
bill  not  only  to  feed — but  to  clothe  himself  too. 

In  the  pursuit  of  his  vocation  Kabak  was 
obliged  one  day  to  enter  the  gates  of  the  city 
under  cover  of  several  bundles  of  wood  which 
he  had  risen  before  daybreak  to  hew  from  the 
venerable  trees  of  the  wood  wherein  he  resided, 
the  Caliph's  cook  having  commanded  him  to 
bring  the  said  fuel  for  the  culinary  purpose  of 


roasting  a  covey  of  partridges,  and  a  lamb  or 
two,  for  the  delicate  maw  of  the  Commander  of 
the  Faithful  and  his  numerous  household. 

Oh!  a  single  glance  into  the  kitchen  of  the 
Caliph  was  a  feast  to  the  eyes  and  a  provoca- 
tive to  hunger.  The  plump  birds,  trimly 
trussed  and  powdered  for  the  polished  spits — 
the  milk-white  rice  for  the  pilau — the  delicate 
odour  of  the  various  spices — made  the  wood- 
cutter slowly  and  instinctively  project  his 
bearded  chin  and  raise  his  regaled  nostrils  in 
the  fragrant  air. 

But  the  double-chinned,  burly  cook  was  too 
well  fed  to  feel  any  sympathy  for  the  hungry; 
and  although  a  single  kidney,  a  gizzard,  or  a 
liver  plucked  from  the  embrace  of  a  chicken's 
wing  would  have  satisfied  the  moderate  desires 
of  Kabak,  he  offered  him  nothing — not  even 
payment  for  his  services;  indeed,  Kabak  dared 
not  for  his  life  ask  such  a  thing  of  so  great  a 
man  as  the  Caliph's  cook;  so,  like  many  a 
well-bred  modern  shopkeeper,  he  stood  playing 
significantly  with  his  bill  in  his  hand. 

At  last  deigning  to  cast  his  little,  peering, 
piggish  eyes  (which  just  glimmered  through 
his  fat  heavy  eyelids)  upon  the  woodcutter, 
he  uttered  such  a  sharp,  repulsive  "  Go ! " 
that  the  startled  Kabak  fancied,  at  the  moment, 
that  the  cook  had  stuck  the  silver  skewer  in 
his  gizzard  instead  of  that  of  the  turkey  he 
was  trussing.  And  confusedly  making  his 
satarn,  the  trembling  Kabak  vanished. 

His  imagination,  but  not  his  stomach,  filled 
with  the  inviting  edibles  his  eyes  had  de- 
voured, Kabak  was  making  his  retreat  from 
this  temple  of  luxury  and  temptation,  when, 
passing  through  a  latticed  corridor,  the  shuffling 
of  a  score  sandals  on  the  tesselated  marble 
pavement  approaching  him,  in  an  instant 
scared  away  all  the  sumptuary  reveries  from 
his  busy  brain,  and  left  it  empty  and  confused 
as  a  vacated  province  before  the  march  of  a 
hostile  army ;  for  Kabak  expected  no  less  than 
to  be  decapitated  by  some  whirligig  scimitar 
sharper  than  his  own  bill. 

Escape  was  vain:  the  group  rapidly  ad- 
vanced; and  his  dizzy  eyes  beheld  not  only 
caftans  and  turbans,  but  veils  too;  and  being 
veils,  there  were  of  course  women,  and  to  look 
upon  these  lovely  houris  M'as  not  only  poeti- 
cally but  actually  death. 

Prostrate  fell  the  trembling  woodcutter — his 
forehead  throbbing  against  the  cold  pavement. 
But  his  abject  garb  and  his  terror,  but  too 
evident  in  his  quivering  limbs,  fortunately  for 
his  head  (and  this  tale),  only  excited  the  mirth 
of  the  beholders,  and  the  fair  ones  enjoyed  a 
hearty  laugh  at  his  expense,  which  he  doubtless 


122 


KABAK. 


considered  his  profit,  for  he  inwardly  thanked 
Mahomet  for  his  preservation. 

His  fears  being  lulled,  Kabak,  moved  by 
curiosity,  ventured  when  they  had  all  passed 
him  to  raise  his  head  and  cast  a  glance  askance 
at  the  retiring  group  of  merry  girls;  and  oh! 
most  fortunate  of  woodcutters,  his  vision  was 
blessed  by  the  sunshiny  face  of  a  very  sylph, 
who,  coquettishly  drawing  aside  her  veil,  smiled 
roguishly  upon  the  recumbent  Kabak,  and 
the  next  moment  faded  like  a  rainbow  from 
his  sight. 

Poor  Kabak!  He  hurried  back  to  his  own 
hut  again,  lovesick  as  a  nightingale,  and  for- 
lorn as  a  frog  in  a  stork's  bill. 

Never  had  he  encountered  so  much  and 
gained  so  little  since  he  had  commenced  the 
arduous  calling  of  lopping  trees. 

He  had  laboured  early  and  indefatigably  to 
chop  up  the  six  bundles  of  wood  for  the  fat  cook 
without  even  getting  a  stake  or  a  chop  for  him- 
self; and  he  had  moreover  found  an  appetite 
and  lost  a  heart.  These  occurrences  had  com- 
pletely turned  Kabak  topsy-turvy;  so  sinking 
listlessly  upon  his  own  block,  his  varying 
thoughts  issued  from  his  lips  in  an  audible 
soliloquy. 

"Oh!  that  I  were  rich!  that  I  were  a  wise 
Caliph,  or  only  a  simple  cadi,  I  would  kick 
that  cursed  cook;  and  oh!  how  I  would  hug 
that  beautiful,  little,  bright-eyed  Georgian! — 
what  wicked  eyes! — what  pretty  lips!  By  the 
beard  of  the  Prophet! — that  lazy  blubber- 
lipped  cook  should  cut  wood,  and  work  till  his 
sandals  were  no  better  than  dripping-pans  to 
his  fat  carcass !  How  would  I  make  my  slaves 
fly!  More  sherbet  here! — rose-water!  —  pis- 
tachios— pilau — bring  me  a  lamb! — I'll  taste 
those  partridges!  Oh!  I  would  be  hungry  and 
eat  for  a  whole  month!  Oh!  beautiful  Georg- 
ian!— sweeter  than  new-blown  roses;  whose 
breath  is  more  fragrant  than  the  caravans  of 
musk  from  Khoten ;  whose  eyes  are  more  bright 
and  piercing  than  the  spits  of  that  ill-favoured 
cook,  who  gave  me  nothing  but  black  looks 
and  sharp  words  for  my  pains.  0  cook! — 0 
Georgian!  O  Georgian! — 0  cook!  one  kills  me 
with  cruelty  and  the  other  with  kindness. 
I'm  pinched  by  hunger  and  consumed  by  love. 
Yet  would  I  forget  all  my  pains  and  pangs  in 
the  possession  of  such  a  nymph  as  she  whom 
my  eyes  beheld  to-day.  What  sorrow  could 
possibly  befall  that  her  smiles  could  not  have 
power  to  sweeten?" 

Scarcely  had  he  given  vent  to  these  compli- 
cated feelings  of  his  heart  when  a  small  vapour 
issuing  from  the  ground-floor  of  his  humble 
cabin  suddenly  cut  short  his  speech.  Anon  it 


spread  wider  and  wider,  becoming  more  dense 
as  it  arose,  when  presently  the  cloud  divided, 
and  there  appeare_d  a  beautiful  female  form  to 
the  enchanted  eyes  of  Kabak.  She  bore  the 
identical  figure  and  face  of  the  fair  Georgian. 

With  oilly  wonder,  half-joyed  and  half- 
abashed,  the  woodcutter,  grasping  the  thumb 
of  his  left  hand,  leered  with  a  smiling  look, 
expressive  of  his  inward  delight,  upon  the 
sylph  before  him — not  daring  to  approach  her. 

"  Kabak,"  cried  she,  in  a  voice  more  melo- 
dious than  the  flute  or  the  rebek,  "lord  of  my 
heart,  receive  thy  bride ! " 

"Eh!  my — mine?"  exclaimed  the  astonished 
woodcutter,  encouraged  by  these  bold  advances, 
"mine — but  art  thou  really  mine?  Don't  be 
putting  a  jest  upon  me." 

"Jest!  I  dare  not  jest  with  my  spouse  if  it 
did  not  please  him — I  love  my  Kabak  too — 
too  much!"  and  putting  her  left  arm  round 
her  Kabak's  neck,  she  playfully  patted  his  cheek, 

"  This  is  a  dream — love  me — no — it  cannot 
be,"  cried  he;  "what  beautiful  lips;  what — 
may  I  presume  to — to  kiss  them?" 

"  Presume ! "  said  the  Georgian,  "is  not  my 
lord  the  light  of  my  eyes  and  the  joy  of  my 
heart  ?  " 

"May  I  then?"  said  Kabak — licking  his 
lips  in  anticipation,  and  pressing  hers  in 
reality,  venting  an  exclamatory  "Oh!"  of 
delight  after  every  ecstatic  salute — "Oh,  this 
is  too  much ! " 

But  this  pleasant  dalliance  was  disagreeably 
interrupted  by  some  one  rapping  loudly  at  the 
door. 

Kabak  was  alarmed,  and  fearfully  jealous 
that  any  human  eye  should  behold  the  most 
precious  jewel  of  his  house. 

Unfortunately,  his  economical  establishment 
consisted  only  of  one  room;  no  Jtaram;  no 
closet;  no  trunk,  save  that  of  a  tree,:  never  was 
bachelor  in  such  an  awkward  quandary — such 
a  distressing  dilemma. 

The  rapping  continued,  accompanied  by  the 
importunate  voice  of  the  burly  cook !  Kabak 
would  as  soon  have  encountered  the  devil: 
however,  seeing  no  alternative,  he  hastily 
piled  up  some  faggots,  behind  which,  with 
many  confused  apologies,  he  placed  his  would- 
be  wife ;  then  unbarring  his  door,  he  cunningly 
yawned,  and  rubbed  his  eyes,  as  if  he  had  just 
awakened  from  a  sound  sleep. 

"You  lazy  dog!"  cried  the  fat  cook,  "how 
dare  you  sleep  when  I  am  coming  hither?  Am 
I  not  thy  patron,  ungrateful  slave?  Do  not  I 
employ  thee  oftener,  and  consume  more  wood, 
than  all  thy  customers  put  together,  who  are 
but  as  dust  beneath  my  feet?" 


SONG. 


123 


Kabak  humbly  begged  pardon  for  his  re- 
missness,  promising  in  future  to  be  unre- 
mitting in  his  duty.  "  Mind  ye  do,"  said  the 
choleric  cook,  "and  to  make  you  remember 
your  duty  to  your  superiors  more  faithfully, 
take  that" — and  raising  his  round,  plump, 
little  leg  to  kick  Kabak,  he  missed  his  aim 
and  fell  backwards  against  the  barricade  which 
concealed  the  lady,  who,screaming  with  affright, 
rushed  from  her  hiding-place,  to  the  terror  of 
Kabak  and  the  unspeakable  wonder  and  ad- 
miration of  the  sprawling  cook,  who,  scarcely 
able  to  move  his  mountain  of  flesh  from  the 
floor,  sat  silently  devouring  the  charms  of  the 
lady,  as  she  hung  upon  her  dear  Kabak,  like 
a  drooping  lily  propped  by  a  hazel  twig. 

"  0,  0  !"  cried  the  cook,  then  ruminating  a 
short  moment,  "Friend  Kabak,"  resumed  he, 
mildly,  "lend  me  thine  arm."  Kabak  raised 
him;  his  heart  was  heavier  than  the  cook. 

"Thy  fortune's  made,  friend  Kabak;  thou 
hast  a  jewel  yonder." 

"Which  I  would  keep." 

"Psha!  fifty  sequins  are  thine,  yield  me 
thy  slave — 'tis  a  bargain. " 

"Never!"  cried  the  woodcutter;  "she  is 
above  price." 

"Very  well,  very  well!"  cried  the  cook, 
shrugging  up  his  shoulders,  "thou  wilt  cry 
for  the  fifty  sequins  to-morrow;"  and  with  this 
threat  he  went  away. 

"Here's  a  predicament!"  exclaimed  the 
sorrowful  Kabak;  "I  am  undone."  And  not 
even  the  blandishments  of  the  lady  of  his  heart 
could  dispel  his  sad  forebodings;  and  sure 
enough,  on  the  following  morning  the  Caliph's 
guard  surrounded  his  hut,  and  breaking  down 
the  door,  demanded  the  surrender  of  his  slave. 
Kabak  and  his  bride,  whom  he  now  looked 
upon  as  the  innocent  but  unhappy  source  of 
all  his  misfortunes,  were  taken  before  the 
Caliph,  who,  immediately  struck  with  the 
transcendant  beauty  of  the  slave,  ordered  her 
to  be  placed  in  his  haram,  and  Kabak  to  be 
entertained  with  great  care  in  the  dungeons  of 
the  seraglio  until  his  pleasure  should  be  known. 
That  the  Caliph's  pleasure  would  prove  Kabak's 
pain  the  woodcutter  was  well  aware;  and  be- 
moaning his  unhappy  fate,  he  sat,  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  cursing  the  cook,  the  Caliph, 
and  his  own  ill  luck. 

"Sure  some  evil  genius  must  have  granted 
my  wish  and  sent  this  nymph  only  for  my  de- 
struction. Fool  that  I  was  to  desire  the  pos- 
session of  such  a  grievous  care  as  a  beautiful 
woman,  thereby  creating  the  envy  of  my  betters, 
and  whetting  a  scimitar  for  my  own  unfortunate 
neck ! " 


"Kabak!  Kabak!  thou  art  an  arrant  zany. 
Why  did  thy  foolish  tongue  utter  the  prepos- 
terous wishes  of  thy  heart?  What  did  a  poor 
devil  of  a  woodcutter  want  with  a  houri — a 
nymph  fit  for  the  haram  of  the  Commander  of 
the  Faithful?  'Twas  like  a  hog  sighing  for 
embroidered  sandals,  or  a  lazy  toad  groaning 
for  a  silken  palanquin. 

"A  most  egregious  folly,  whereby  I  shall 
lose  my  head,  which  I  still  value  as  an  old  ac- 
quaintance, though  it  has  proved  of  so  little 
use  to  me." 

As  he  concluded  these  penitential  reflections, 
there  arose  before  him  a  venerable  sage,  with 
a  snowy  beard  descending  even  to  his  feet. 
Mildness  and  benevolence  beamed  from  his 
bright  blue  eyes,  and  threw  a  sunshine  over 
his  placid  features. 

Kabak,  with  reverential  awe,  prostrated  him- 
self at  the  sage's  feet. 

"Mortal,"  said  he,  "thy  wishes  were  wild 
and  unreasonable.  But  only  in  the  fulfilment 
thereof  could  their  fallacy  have  been  satisfac- 
torily proved.  Thine  eyes  are  opened,  and 
thine  errors  punished.  Henceforth  be  content 
in  the  station  which  heaven  in  its  wisdom  hath 
assigned  thee.  Go  forth;  thou  art  free.  Be 
honest  and  industrious,  and  the  good  genii 
will  defend  thee  from  all  harm." 

The  sage  melted  into  air;  and  the  no  less 
astonished  than  delighted  Kabak  found  himself 
on  the  floor  of  his  own  cabin! 

A.  CROWQUIU. 


SONG. 

FROM   THE    SPANISH. 

O  broad  and  limpid  river, 

O  banks  so  fair  and  gay — 
O  meadows  verdant  ever, 

O  groves  in  green  array; 
Oh  !  if  in  field  or  plain 

My  love  should  hap  to  be, 
Ask  if  her  heart  retain 

A  thought  of  me. 

O  clear  and  crystal  dews 

That  in  the  morning  ray. 
All  bright  with  silvery  hues 

Make  field  and  forest  g;iy; 
Oh  !  if  in  field  or  plain 

My  love  should  hap  to  be, 
Ask  if  her  heart  retain 

A  thought  of  ni8. 


124 


THE  LITERARY  LIFE. 


O  woods  that  to  the  breeze 

With  waving  branches  play: 
O  sands,  where  oft  at  ease 

Her  careless  footsteps  stray ; 
Oh !  if  in  field  or  plain 

My  love  should  hap  to  be, 
Ask  if  her  heart  retain 

A  thought  of  me. 

O  warbling  birds  that  still 

Salute  the  rising  day, 
And  plain  and  valley  fill 

With  your  enchanting  lay; 
Oh  !  if  in  field  or  plain 

My  love  should  hap  to  be, 
Ask  if  her  heart  retain 

A  thought  of  me. 


J.  G.  LOCKHART. 


THE  LORD'S  MARIE. 

The  Lord's  Marie  has  kepp'd  her  locks 

Up  wi'  a  gowdeu  kanie, 
An'  she  has  put  on  her  net-silk  hose, 

An'  awa  to  the  tryste  has  gaue. 
O  saft,  suft  fell  the  dew  on  her  locks, 

An'  saft,  saft  on  her  brow; 
Ae  sweet  drap  fell  on  her  strawberry  lip, 

An'  I  kiss'd  it  aff  I  trow. 

"O  whar  gat  ye  that  leal  maiden, 

Sae  jimpy  laced  an'  sina'? 
O  whar  gat  ye  that  young  damsel, 

Wha  dings  our  lasses  a' ! 
O  whar  gat  ye  that  bonnie,  bonnie  lass, 

Wi'  heaven  in  her  ee? 
O  here's  ae  drap  o'  the  damask  wine, 

Sweet  maiden,  will  ye  pree?" 

Fu'  white,  white  was  her  bounie  neck, 

Twist  wi'  the  satin  twine; 
But  ruddie,  ruddie  grew  her  hawse, 

While  she  sipp'd  the  bluid-red  wine. 
"Come  here's  thy  health,  young  stranger  dow, 

"Wha  wears  the  gowden  kaine — 
This  night  will  mony  drink  thy  health, 

And  ken  na  wha  to  name." 

Play  me  up  "Sweet  Marie,"  I  cried, 

And  loud  the  piper  blew — 
But  the  fiddler  play'd  ay  struntum  strum, 

An'  down  his  bow  he  threw. 
"  Here's  thy  kind  health  i'  the  ruddie  red  wine, 

Fair  dame  o'  the  stranger  land ! 
For  never  a  pair  o'  een  before 

Could  mar  my  gude  bow  hand." 


Her  lips  were  a  cloven  hinney  cherrie, 

Sae  tempting  to  the  sight ; 
Her  locks,  ower  alabaster  brows, 

Fell  like  the  morning  light. 
An'  light  on  her  hinney  breath  heaved  her  locks, 

As  through  the  dance  she  flew; 
While  luve  laugh'd  in  her  bonnie  blue  ee, 

And  dwalt  on  her  comely  mou". 

"Loose  hings  yer  broider'd  good  garter, 

Fair  lady,  dare  I  speak?" 
She,  trembling,  lift  up  her  silken  hand 

To  her  red,  red  flushing  cheek. 
"Ye've  drapp'd,  ye've  drapp'd  your  brooch  o' 
gowd, 

Thou  Lord's  daughter  sae  gay;" 
The  tears  o  er-brimmed  her  bonnie  blue  ee, 

"O  come,  O  come  away." — 

"  O  maid,  undo  the  siller  ban', 

To  thy  chamber  let  me  win." — 
"An'  tak  this  kiss,  thou  peasant  youth, 

I  daurna  let  thee  in. 
And  tak,"  quoth  she,  "  this  kaine  o'  gowd, 

Wi'  my  lock  o'  yellow  hair, 
For  meikle  my  heart  forbodes  to  me 

I  never  maun  meet  thee  mair." 

ALLAN  CWXXIKGHAM. 


THE    LITERARY    LIFE.1 

To  take  up,  as  promised,  the  subject  of  pre- 
paration for  literature  as  a  profession,  I  begin 
by  saying  that  probably  the  greater  number 
of  those  who  try  to  find  their  way  into  litera- 
ture never  think  of  preparing  for  it  at  all,  and 
that  some  of  those  who  read  this  will  no  doubt 
wonder  what  kind  of  preparation  can  be 
possible  or  desirable.  Let  me  be  excused  for 
being  autobiographical ;  it  will  prove  the 
shortest  way  of  getting  into  the  heart  of  the 
subject. 

The  Scripture-loving  people  among  whom 
my  lot  was  first  cast  used  to  say  of  me  that  I 
had  "the  pen  of  a  ready  writer,"  from  the 
time  when  I  could  use  the  pen.  But  long 
before  I  had  learned  writing  I  had  a  style  of 
what  shall  I  say? — slate -pencilmanship  of  my 
own,  and,  on  the  slate,  "lisped  in  numbers,  for 
the  numbers  came. "  By  the  time  I  was  ten 
years  old  I  had  produced  plenty  of  verse,  which, 
merely  as  such,  was  good,  and  which  probably 


1  From  St.  Paul's  Magazine,  August,  1871.  This  is 
one  of  a  series  of  articles  which  are  full  of  humour  and 
keen  olwervatioii.  and  which  obtain  peculiar  value  from 
the  absolute  frankness  of  the  writer.  His  experience 
baa  been  great,  and  he  gives  the  result  without  reserve. 


THE  LITERARY  LIFE. 


125 


contained  some  faint  elements  of  poetry.  But 
my  shyness  and  self-distrust  were  extreme, 
and  this  continued  up  to  long  after  the  time 
when  it  had  been  proved  that  other  people 
were  willing  to  hear  me  or  read  me.  These 
lines  may  possibly,  nay  probably,  be  read  by 
an  editor  who  will  remember  something  of  a 
poetical  contributor  whose  rhymes  he  used  to 
print,  but  who  utterly  disappeared  and  shot 
suddenly  down  the  horizon  upon  being  politely 
requested  in  the  correspondents'  column  to 
furnish  his  name  and  address.  This,  which  I 
Suppose  would  have  set  the  hair  of  many  con- 
tributors on  end  with  rapturous  visions  of 
cheques  and  conversaziones,  was  quite  suffi- 
cient to  shut  me  up,  though  I  was  a  grown 
man  with  children.  The  good-natured  editor 
had  heard  his  first  and  last  of  me,  unless  he 
recognizes  me  under  this  fresh  disguise.  I 
will  help  his  memory,  if  he  yet  lives,  in  the 
following  manner:  Supposing  I  wanted  to  get 
hold  of  him  by  advertisement,  I  should  insert  in 
the  agony  column  of  the  Times  or  Telegraph 
a  notice  beginning — "  The  Ascent  of  the  Peter 
Botte.  If  the  Editor  who  once,"  &c.,  &c. 
Further  than  this  I  decline  to  go,  we  have  all 
our  feelings.  The  upshot  of  this  is  that  I  had 
always  a  certain  amount  of  "encouragement" 
given  to  me,  especially  in  matters  of  verse. 
My  rhymes  were  almost  always  inserted,  and 
promptly;  and  a  distinguished  man  of  letters 
(never  mind  how  I  happened  to  get  into  com- 
munication with  him — it  cost  me  agonies)  told 
me  that  verse  was  my  "spere."  While  I 
write  this  I  am  thinking  of  Dickens'  old 
stager,  who  failed  to  make  a  journey  by  rail, 
getting  miserably  lost  at  stations,  and  whose 
wife  was  told  by  the  housemaid  that  "railways 
wasn't  master's  spear." 

It  is  not  an  impossible  thing  to  make  money 
by  writing  verses,  but  in  order  to  do  so  you 
must  either  have  an  independent  stand-point  to 
begin  from,  or  you  must  be  in  such  a  position 
that  you  can  afford  to  go  through  a  long  pro- 
bation before  you  arrive  at  the  period  when 
you  can  make  poetry  pay.  Even  then  the 
chances  are  a  million  to  one  against  success. 
My  own  position  and  feelings  at  the  time  when 
I  began  to  think  about  writing  for  money,  are 
expressed  in  certain  paragraphs  from  my  own 
pen,  which  I  will  quote  directly.  And  I  should 
never  have  begun  to  think  of  writing  for 
money  at  all  if  it  had  not  been  that  I  was,  in  a 
manner,  driven  to  it  by  finding  certain  occupa- 
tions, which  I  need  not  describe,  telling  on  my 
health. 

The  passage  I  was  about  to  quote  is  as 
follows : — 


"  Any  one  who  wishes  to  make  a  serious 
mark  upon  the  literature  of  his  country  had 
better,  if  he  possibly  can,  find  some  other 
means  of  getting  his  bread  than  writing.  To 
write  for  immortality,  and  for  the  journals  too, 
is  about  the  most  harassing  work  a  man  could 
engage  in.  There  are,  of  course,  cases  to  the 
contrary — cases  of  men  who  have  a  fine 
physique  to  back  the  large  brain,  and  whose 
genius  is  consequently  of  the  productive  and 
popular  order.  Such  men  can  kill  the  two 
birds  with  one  stone,  but  woe  betide  the  weak- 
ling who  tries  the  same  thing! 

"  In  all  cases  where  the  brain,  whether  in- 
trinsically or  by  association  with  a  capricious 
physique,  is  delicate  and  incapable  of  inces- 
sant production,  the  problem — difficult  of  solu- 
tion, but  not  always  insoluble — is  to  find  some 
not  too  uncongenial  employment,  which  shall 
yield  the  nucleus  of  an  income,  and  leave  a 
good  deal  of  leisure  too.  Not  a  clerk's  place, 
if  the  man  be  of  the  Campbell  order,  but  some- 
thing less  continuous,  if  even  more  arduous. 
Men  of  imaginative  mould  should  choose,  if 
they  can,  pursuits  which  leave  large  yaps  of 
leisure,  even  if  they  pay  for  that  advantage 
by  being  overworked  at  occasional  times. " 

I  must  here  say,  harsh  as  the  judgment  will 
seem  to  a  good  many  people,  that  it  is  all  but 
impossible  for  a  person  to  use  any  form  of 
teaching  (except  the  most  mechanical,  and 
scarcely  then)  as  a  means  of  earning  a  liveli- 
hood, and  yet  maintain  perfect  independence 
and  purity  of  conscience.  Journalists,  who 
are  bent  to  the  yoke,  will  scoff  at  this ;  but  the 
fox  without  a  tail  laughs  all  the  world  over  at 
the  fox  who  insists  on  keeping  his;  and  I 
maintain  that  what  I  say  is  true.  At  all 
events  I  thought  so,  and  determined  that  I 
would,  at  whatever  cost,  find  out  some  way  of 
earning  at  least  bread  and  water,  so  that  I 
might  leave  myself  without  excuse  if,  at  the 
end  of  every  writing  day,  I  could  not  say, 
"  This  hand  has  never  written  what  this  brain 
did  not  think,  or  this  heart  did  not  feel. " 

Besides  this  difficulty,  there  were  others  in 
my  way  which  forced  themselves  upon  my  at- 
tention. My  natural  inclination  was  always 
either  to  look  at  things  "in  the  aibstract"  and 
run  off  into  metaphysics,  or  else  to  be  what 
people  called  transcendental,  or  florid,  or,  still 
more  frequently,  mystical.  And  I  uniformly 
observed  that  writing  to  which  the  people  I 
knew — my  fool-ometers  in  fact — would  apply 
these  terms,  was  certain  to  be  rejected  by 
editors.  I  also  observed,  and  past  experience 
has  amusingly  confirmed  this,  that  editors  who 
will  look  very  jealously  after  what  you  say 


126 


THE  LITERAEY  LIFE. 


while  your  articles  are  new  to  them,  will  let 
you  write  almost  what  you  please  after  a  little 
time.  Putting  one  thing  with  another,  I  began 
a  determined  course  of  preparatory  study — 
that  is  to  say,  I  minutely  analyzed  the  sort  of 
writing  for  which  I  found  there  was  a  market. 
In  this  way  I  pulled  to  pieces  erery  novel  and 
every  leading  article  that  I  came  across.  Thus, 
1  took  so  many  pages  of  a  story  and  chopped  it 
all  up  into  incident,  conversation,  and  com- 
ment. Leading  articles  gave  me  a  great  deal 
of  trouble.  I  found  that  I  could  write  articles 
that  were  printed  when  the  subject  excited  me, 
or  when  the  appeal  in  the  discussion  was  to 
first  principles.  Hence,  an  article  of  mine  on 
a  revolution,  or  on  the  law  of  husband  and 
wife,  would,  I  found,  be  welcomed ;  but  for 
politics,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  I 
had  not  a  whiff  of  instinct.  Although  I 
always  could,  and  can,  adapt  means  to  ends 
by  dint  of  hard  thinking,  yet  I  found 
myself  destitute  of  all  sagacity  in  dealing 
with  the  by-play  of  minor  motives,  and 
utterly  lost — though  scornfully  as  well  as 
consciously  lost — in  handling  what  people  call 
politics.  I  shall  never  forget,  and  my  friend 
now  beyond  the  grave  will  perhaps  remember 
in  heaven,  the  outcome  of  his  asking  me  to 
attend  vestry  meetings — and  edit  a  local  news- 
paper. This  was  not  from  any  contempt  of 
common  things,  but  from  a  sense  that  every- 
body would  get  a  rise  out  of  me  which  would 
make  my  attempt  to  fulfil  editorial  duties  a 
farce.  My  instinct  was  a  true  instinct :  and, 
after  accepting  the  engagement,  I  gave  it  up, 
because  I  was  satisfied  that,  by  attempting  to 
keep  it,  I  should  put  him  to  more  inconvenience 
than  I  could  possibly  do  by  breaking  it.  He 
perfectly  understood,  laughed,  and  remained 
my  friend  to  the  last. 

The  things,  then,  that  gave  me  the  most 
trouble,  considered  as  studies,  were  leading 
articles  and  essays  on  current  politics.  With 
regard  to  the  latter,  or  indeed  both,  I  never 
could  get  a  firm  footing  to  begin  with.  It  was 
Austria  wants  to  do  this,  and  Prussia  wants  to 
do  the  other;  the  Bourbons  aimed  at  so-and- 
so,  and  Spain  had  her  reasons  for  standing 
aloof.  But  I  was,  for  one  thing,  unable  to  see 
that  there  was  any  ground  for  all  this  sort  of 
thing,  outside  the  fancy  of  the  rtdacteur;  and 
then,  again,  I  could  never  personify  Austria,  or 
Spain,  or  Prussia,  or  France.  My  mind,  or 
as  Lord  Westbury  puts  it,  what  I  was  pleased 
to  call  my  mind,  said — "Austria?  But  what 
is  Austria?  It  is  so  many  roods  of  ground." 
It  was  intelligible  to  me  that  a  man  should 
want  to  marry  a  particular  woman,  or  to  secure  a 


particular  estate,  for  its  beauty  or  use;  but  that 
Scnwarzenburg,  and  Thiers,  and  Palmerston, 
and  A.  and  B. ,  and  who-not,  should  be  play- 
ing a  political ' '  game  "  with  earnestness  enough 
to  deserve  or  justify  a  serious  leading  article, 
was  to  me  utterly  unintelligible.  This  was 
not  for  want  of  strong  English  feeling  and  even 
passionate  pride  in  "speaking  the  tongue  that 
Shakspeare  spake,"  but  from  my  general  in- 
capacity to  understand  why  people  should  be 
always  meddling  with  each  other.  When  I  was 
a  little  boy  I  remember  hearing  a  shock-headed 
wart-nosed  tradesman,  brandishing  a  ham  knife, 
holding  forth  thus:  "What  does  a  man  go  and 
be  a  politician  for?  His  own  aggrandyzement. 
What  makes  a  man  go  and  be  a  clergyman? 
His  own  aggrandyzement.  What  makes  me 
go  and  keep  a  'am-and-beef  shop?  My  own 
aggrandyzement."  Well,  I  had  been  brought 
up  in  some  loneliness,  and  chiefly  in  the 
society  of  those  who  had  a  consuming  desire 
to  make  certain  opinions  prevail;  the  opinions 
being  rooted  in  first  principles,  and  the  only 
means  dreamed  of  being  fair  persuasion.  And 
up  to  this  time  of  my  life,  late  as  it  was,  I  had 
only  a  very  faint  appreciation  of  the  activity 
of  the  "aggrandyzement"  motive  in  the 
affairs  of  the  world.  Besides  this  obstacle  to 
my  appreciating  current  political,  or  even 
much  of  different  social  criticism,  there  was 
another  difficulty.  Leading  articles  seemed  to 
me  to  begin  from  nothing  and  to  lead  to  no- 
where, and  it  was  not  till  after  most  persever- 
ing study  that  I  succeeded  in  cutting  open 
the  bellows  and  finding  where  the  wind  came 
from.  Then,  again,  I  carefully  examined  the 
magazines,  and  very  carefully  indeed  the 
Notices  to  Correspondents.  But  at  thirty 
years  of  age  I  was  still  so  green  as  to  write 
one  day  to  the  Times,  pointing  out  an  error  of 
fact  and  a  clear  fallacy  of  deduction  in  one  of 
its  leaders,  doing  this  in  the  full  undoubting 
expectation  that  they  would  make  the  neces- 
sary correction.  About  this  time  I  had  an 
introduction  to  Mr.  Mowbray  Morris,  and  saw 
him  in  his  room  at  the  Times  office.  Nothing 
came  of  it,  and  I  expect  he  thought  I  was  a 
real  Arcadian.  I  was. 

My  letters  of  introduction  were  rather 
numerous,  and  addressed  to  people  who  could 
probably  have  helped  me  if  they  had  taken 
pains — nay,  some  of  whom  would  probably 
have  done  so  if  I  had  "pushed"  a  little.  But 
this  was  impossible  to  me ;  and  I  was  much 
surprised  that  clever  men — as  I  had  reason  to 
suppose  many  of  these  persons  to  whom  I  had 
letters  really  were — did  not  seem  able  at  a 
glance  to  feel  sure  that  this  real  Arcadian  had 


THE   LITERARY  LIFE. 


127 


*  share  of  honesty,  application,  and  versatility 
which  might  make  it  politic,  merely  as  a 
matter  of  business,  to  treat  him  civilly.  The 
only  person,  however,  who  was  really  insolent, 
was  a  man  who  had  written  chiefly  on  "love" 
and  "brotherhood."  I  am  not  writing  down  a 
cynical  fib,  but  the  simple  truth.  He  certainly 
annoyed  me,  and  I  thought  to  myself,  "One 
of  these  days  I  will  serve  you  out."  I  have, 
of  course,  never  served  him  out;  the  only 
effect  of  his  rudeness  has  been  that  I  have 
been  able  to  speak  of  him  with  cheerful  frank- 
ness. There  was  some  fun  in  situations  of 
this  kind;  and  I  used  to  enjoy  the  feeling,  that 
while  perhaps  some  one  to  whom  I  had  a  letter 
was  snubbing  me,  or  at  least  treating  me  de 
haut  en  has,  he  was  behaving  thus  to  a  stranger 
who  would  be  able  to  his  dying  day  to  describe 
every  look  of  the  superior  being's  eyes,  every 
line  of  his  face,  every  word  he  said,  the  buttons 
on  his  coat,  how  high  the  gas  was,  and  what  tune 
the  organ-grinder  was  playing  in  the  next  street 
while  the  little  scene  came  off. 

After  a  time  I  was  told  by  an  old  friend  of 
a  gentleman  who,  he  thought,  might  help  me. 
Him  I  hunted  up,  by  a  circuitous  route, 
though  I  knew  neither  his  name,  his  qualifi- 
cations, nor  his  address.  He  is  a  man  of 
genius  and  of  good-nature,  and  through  him 
I  got  really  useful  introductions.  From  this 
time  there  were  no  external  difficulties  in  my 
way.  But  conscientious  scruples,  and  personal 
habits  of  my  own  remained  to  constitute  real 
and  very  serious  obstacles.  I  was  not  what 
Mr.  Carlyle,  describing  the  literary  amanu- 
ensis who  helped  him  in  his  Cromwell  labours, 
calls  "hardy."  The  manner  in  which  the  or- 
dinary journalist  knocks  about  was  always  a 
wonder  to  me.  I  could  neither  stand  gas,  nor 
tobacco,  nor  pottering  about,  nor  hunting 
people  up  in  the  intervals  of  literary  labour, 
nor  what  those  who  know  me  have  (too)  often 
heard  me  call  "jaw."  I  mean  the  kind  of  de- 
bate which  goes  on  at  discussion  societies,  and 
among  even  intelligent  men  when  public  topics 
arise  after  dinner.  It  is  half  sincere;  it  is 
wanting  in  the  nicety  of  distinction  which  love 
of  truth  demands;  it  is  full  of  push,  and  loud- 
ness,  personal  vanity,  and  the  zest  of  combat: 
so  it  seemed  to  me  that  no  one  could  have 
much  of  it  without  loss,  not  only  of  self-re- 
spect, but  also  of  fineness  of  perception  and 
clearness  of  conscience.  As  unpleasant  in 
another  way  was  what  we  may  perhaps  call  the 
clever  "club"  talk  of  literary  men.  Here  you 
find  men  trying  apparently  which  can  say  the 
imartest  thing — to  quote  a  mot  of  a  living 
writer  of  admirable  vers  de  tsoclete,  "they  call 


their  jokes  'quips,'  but  the  work  is  so  hard 
that  they  might  just  as  well  be  called  'cranks.' " 
On  the  whole,  my  tastes  and  habits  were  about 
as  unfavourable  for  making  way  in  journalism 
as  could  possibly  be  supposed.  The  necessity 
of  keeping  a  conscience — and  obstinately  keep- 
ing it  under  a  glass  case  too — was  a  far  more 
serious  matter. 

It  so  happened,  however,  that  immediately  on 
starting  with  my  pen  in  a  professional  way,  I 
got  a  character  for  writing  good  critical  papers. 
The  very  first  critical  essay  I  ever  wrote  was 
quoted,  and  noticed  in  high  quarters;  and 
it  was  passed  round  that  I  had  a  quick  scent 
in  literary  matters.  But  the  way  in  which 
this  worked  was  very  amusing.  Everybody 
went  about  to  flood  me  with  reviewing  work. 
It  was  quite  natural,  but  rather  wide  of  the 
mark.  When  a  man  who  possesses  a  pretty 
good  critical  scent  takes  up  a  book  that  is 
either  by  goodness  or  badness  suggestive,  there 
are  "three  courses"  open  to  him.  He  may 
characterize  it  in  a  few  sentences;  but  half-a- 
dozen  lines,  even  if  they  are  bright  and  ex- 
haustive in  their  way,  are  not  a  review — are 
not,  in  fact,  what  is  wanted  of  a  journalist. 
Or  he  may  make  it  a  topic,  and  produce  an 
article  as  long  as  a  small  book.  This,  again, 
however  good,  is  not  what  is  wanted  of  a  jour- 
nalist. The  third  course,  to  write  a  column 
or  two  about  a  book  that  has  no  particular  life 
in  it,  is  the  arduous  one.  And  arduous  indeed 
it  is. 

There  was  another  difficulty  which  stood  in 
my  way  as  a  journalist.  There  is  a  class  of 
article  for  which  there  is  always  a  demand. 
I  mean  the  kind  of  article  which  teaches  one 
half  of  the  world  how  the  other  half  lives.  I 
hope  literary  beginners  who  may  read  these 
lines  will  take  notice  of  that.  For  this  kind 
of  writing  I  had  some  qualifications — quick- 
ness of  eye,  a  tenacious  memory  of  detail,  and 
a  lively  sense  of  fun;  but  then  I  could  not 
knock  about  and  come  up  to  time.  A  day  in 
Spitalfields  would  make  me  ill.  There  was  a 
case  in  which,  under  unusually  favourable  con- 
ditions, I  had  to  refuse  a  task  of  this  kind. 
The  kind  and  discerning  friend  who  proposed 
it  I  met  by  exposing  my  own  unfitness  in  the 
matter  of  knocking  about,  and  I  said,  "  Sir. 
So-and-so  is  your  man;  he  will  do  it  better 
than  I  shall  in  many  respects."  My  friend 
answered,  "No,  not  in  every  respect;  he  will 
not  put  into  it  the  feeling  that  you  will."  In 
spite  of  this  encouragement  I  declined  the 
work,  and  for  the  soundest  reasons.  But  any 
beginner  who  can  do  writing  of  this  descrip- 
tion, with  plenty  of  detail — and  without  inter- 


128 


THE  LITERARY  LIFE. 


spaces  of  meditation,  such  as  would  come 
down  by  main  force  upon  my  pen — may  make 
sure  of  earning  money  by  literature. 

The  practical  upshot  of  most  of  the  foregoing 
memoranda  is  this:  It  so  happened  that  I 
usually  got  into  print  when  I  desired  it :  that 
my  very  first  article  "professionally"  written 
was  printed  in  good  company;  and  that  I  had 
few  difficulties  outside  of  my  own  personal 
peculiarities.  But  how  was  this?  Just  thus 
(shade  of  Artemus  Ward  !) :  I  had  for  years 
made  the  working  literature  of  the  day  a  study; 
knew  the  things  that  tended  to  exclude  a 
man's  writing  from  magazines  and  newspapers, 
and  the  special  points  that  I  had  to  guard 
against.  Is  there  anything  wrong  in  suggest- 
ing that  not  one  in  a  thousand  of  the  class 
called  "literary  aspirants  "  has  ever  made  the 
working  literature  of  the  hour  a  systematic 
study? 

The  articles,  like  the  books,  of  the  class 
called  literary  aspirants  are  usually  rejected, 
even  when  they  have  merit,  upon  what  may  be 
termed  points  of  literary  form.  This  paragraph 
is  good,  and  tliat  is  good,  and  this  other  is 
really  fine ;  but  the  whole  thing  wants  licking 
into  shape.  Thus,  an  editor  or  reviewer  of 
experience  and  vision  can  almost  certainly  tell 
amateur  work  at  a  glance.  See  some  interest- 
ing remarks  by  Mr.  Herman  Merivale  in  a 
recent  "Junius"  paper  in  the  Cornhiil  upon 
the  ease  with  which  literary  work  is  recognized 
as  that  of  a  practised  pen.  We  are  sometimes 
told — and  thousands  of  "aspirants"  think 
with  bitterness — that  the  distinction  between 
the  amateur  and  the  practised  writer  is  idle, 
because  everybody  is  an  amateur  to  begin  with. 
But  I  have  shown  that  this  is  not  true.  In 
spite  of  long  practice  in  the  use  of  the  pen,  I 
made  working  literature  a  deliberate  study, 
and  others  have  done  the  same ;  that  is,  they 
have  not  relied  on  mere  aptitude.  "Look," 
says  the  writer  of  a  formless  novel,  "look  at 
'Jane  Eyre!'"  Well,  by  all  means  look  at 
"Jane  Eyre;"  you  can  hardly  look  at  a  more 
instructive  case.  Currer  Bell  did  not  succeed 
as  an  amateur ;  she  had  been  a  hard  student 
of  the  conditions  of  success,  and  she  attended 
to  them  so  far  as  her  knowledge  went,  and  so 
far  as  she  desired  to  use  them.  Of  literary 
ambition  proper  she  had  none,  nor — if  I  may 
speak  of  myself  in  the  same  sentence — have  I. 
But  whatever  one's  motive  or  impulse  may  be 
in  writing,  he  must  pay  some  attention  to 
matters  of  literary  form,  and  he  must  comply 
with  such  of  them  as  have  a  just  and  natural 
foundation.  He  is,  in  fact,  as  much  bound  to 
comply  with  these  as  he  is  bound  not  to  com- 


ply with  those  which  demand  some  sacrifice  of 
truthfulness,  self-respect,  and  clearness  of  con- 
science. 

Paradoxical  as  some  may  think  it,  the  chief 
hindrance  to  honest  literary  success  is  literary 
vainglory  to  begin  with.  This  involves  splash, 
false  fire,  chaotic  "out-lay"  (to  use  a  sur- 
veyor's phrase)  of  the  work,  and  foolish  and 
exaggerated  ideas  of  the  "success"  within 
reach.  There  was  a  one-volume  novel  pub- 
lished a  year  or  two  ago,  in  which  a  young 
journalist,  whose  suit  had  been  rejected  by  a 
young  lady's  " 'aughty  "  mother,  and  who  ia 
under  a  cloud  for  a  time,  makes  money  at  a 
rate  which  must  have  set  every  journalist  in, 
England  laughing,  and  then  suddenly  blazes 
out  in  the  society  of  dukes  and  cabinet  min- 
isters because  he  has  written  a  crushing  ex- 
posure in  a  daily  paper  of  the  probable  work- 
ing of  "clause  5"  of  a  certain  bill.  This 
particular  book  was  a  very  innocent  one,  and 
no  more  vainglorious  than  Currer  Bell's  notions 
of  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 

In  that  specimen  sheet  of  her  handwriting 
given  by  Mrs.  Gaskell  in  the  memoir,  she  shows 
us  the  duke  at  the  war-office,  putting  on  his 
hat  at  five  minutes  to  four,  telling  the  clerks 
that  they  might  go,  and  scattering  "largess" 
among  the  clerks  with  a  liberal  hand  as  he 
takes  his  leave  for  the  day.  Sancla  simpllcltas! 
we  cry ;  and  there  is  an  end.  But  every  writ- 
ing man  knows  that  "aspirants,"  as  a  class, 
are  eaten  up  with  vainglory.  They  want  dis- 
tinction and  the  run  of  the  pleasures  of  a  "  lite- 
rary "  life  as  they  apprehend  them.  They 
have  visions  of  the  tenth  thousand,  and  flam- 
ing reviews,  and  gorgeous  society.  I  see  with 
infinite  amusement  the  ideas  some  people  have 
of  the  sort  of  life  I  lead.  They  think — they 
almost  tell  me  so  in  words — that  I  have  always 
got  my  pocket  full  of  orders  for  the  theatre; 
that  I  can  button-hole  anybody  I  please ;  that 
I  go  to  the  queen's  garden-parties ;  that  I  sit 
with  a  halo  round  my  head  in  gilded  saloons, 
saying,  or  hearing  said,  brilliant  mots ;  that  I 
drink  champagne  with  actresses  behind  the 
scenes ;  and  that,  if  they  offend  me,  I  shall  at 
once  put  them  in  Punch  or  the  Times.  I  have 
also  been  told — almost  point-blank  in  some 
cases — that  it  was  only  my  jealousy  and  desire 
to  "keep  others  down"  that  prevented  my 
procuring  immediate  admission  into  periodicals 
for  articles  submitted  to  me  by  A.  or  B. ,  which 
were  perhaps  of  the  silliest  and  most  despi- 
cable quality.  I  have  had  this  said  or  hinted 
to  my  face,  or  behind  my  back,  about  articles 
that  were  utterly  unprintable,  at  times  when 
my  own  papers  had  been  waiting  months — 


LOUGHRIG  TARN. 


129 


three,  six,  or  eight  months — for  insertion  in 
places  where  I  had  what  is  called  "interest." 
People  who  have — who  are  capable  of  having 
— notions  of  this  kind  I  would  certainly  do 
my  best  to  keep  out  of  literature ;  not,  how- 
ever, from  "jealousy,"  but  because  they  are 
morally  unfit  for  it. 

This  opens  the  way  for  a  word  or  two  which 
I  promised  upon  "cliqueism."  That  literary 
men,  like  other  people,  form  knots  and  groups, 
is  a  matter  of  course;  and  "what  for  no?" 
That  there  must  be  partiality  and  some  degree 
of  exclusiveness  in  these,  is  certain.  That 
there  are  quarrels  I  am  sure,  for  I  hear  of 
them,  and  discern  their  consequences.  But  so 
there  are  everywhere.  In  some  hole-and-corner 
connections  there  may  be  jealousy  and  exclu- 
siveness founded  on  money  reasons.  But,  per- 
sonally, I  have  never  once  come  into  collision 
with  anything  of  the  kind.  As  a  hindrance 
to  "aspirants,"  I  do  not  believe  such  a  thing 
exists.  The  chief  deterring  or  exclusive  influ- 
ence I  have  ever  suffered  from  has  been  that 
of  .1  kindness  so  much  in  excess  of  my  capacity 
to  make  fair  returns,  that  I  have  flinched  from 
accepting  it.  Literary  men,  as  I  know  them, 
come  nearer  to  "VVieland's  Cosmopolites  ("  Die 
Abderiten")  than  any  other  class. 

If  anybody  thinks  there  is  too  much  of  what 
is  called  "  egotism  "  in  these  notes,  I  disagree 
with  him.  It  is  a  pity  I  have  not  had  the 
moral  courage  to  be  more  "egotistic"  still, 
and  I  wish  other  people  would  set  me  the  ex- 
ample. This  i:s  a  world  in  which  you  cannot 
wear  your  heart  upon  your  sleeve ;  but  it  is  for 
a  base  and  disgusting  reason — namely,  that 
there  are  so  many  daws  and  other  unclean 
birds  about.  It  was  not  my  intention  to  ap- 
pend my  signature,  but  the  editor  did  it,  and 
his  judgment  in  such  a  matter  is  better  than 
mine. 

MATTHEW  BROWNE. 


LOUGHRIG  TARK 

Thou  guardian  Naiad  of  this  little  lake, 
Whose  banks  in  unprofaned  Nature  sleep, 
(And  that  in  waters  lone  and  beautiful 
Divell  spirits  radiant  as  the  homes  they  love, 
Have  poets  still  believed;  O  surely  blest 
Beyond  all  genii  or  of  wood  or  wave, 
Or  sylphs  that  in  the  shooting  sunbeams  dwell, 
Art  thou!  yea,  happier  even  than  summer-cloud 
Beloved  by  air  and  sky,  and  floating  slow 
O'er  the  still  bosom  of  upholding  heaven. 
VOL.    I. 


Beauteous  as  blest,  0  Naiad,  thou  must  be ! 
For,  since  thy  birth,  have  all  delightful  things. 
Of  form  and  line,  of  silence  and  of  sound, 
Circled  thy  spirit,  as  the  crowding  stars 
Shine  round  the  placid  Moon.     Lov'st  thou  to  sinfc 
Into  thy  cell  of  sleep?     The  water  parts 
With  dimpling  smiles  around  thee,  and  below. 
The  unsunn'd  verdure,  soft  as  cygnet's  don  a. 
Meets  thy  descending  feet  without  a  sound. 
Lov'st  thou  to  sport  upon  the  watery  gljani? 
Lucid  as  air  around,  thy  head  it  lies 
Bathing  thy  sable  locks  in  pearly  light, 
While,  all  around,  the  water-lilies  strive 
To  shower  their  blossoms  o'er  the  virgin  queen. 
Or  doth  the  shore  allure  thee?— well  it  may: 
How  soft  these  fields  of  pastoral  beauty  melt 
In  the  clear  water  !  neither  sand  nor  stone 
Bars  herb  or  wild-flower  from  the  do.vy  toiind. 
Like  Spring's  own  voice  now  rippling  round  the  Tara 
There  oft  thou  liest  'mid  the  echoing  bleat 
Of  lambs,  that  race  amid  the  sunny  gleams; 
Or  bee's  wide  murmur  as  it  fills  the  broom 
That  yellows  round  thy  bed.     O  gentle  glades, 
Amid  the  tremulous  verdure  of  the  woods, 
In  steadfast  smiles  of  more  essential  light, 
Lying,  like  azure  streaks  of  placid  sky 
Amid  the  moving  clouds,  the  Naiad  loves 
Your  glimmering  alleys,  and  your  rustling  bowers; 
For  there,  in  peace  reclined,  her  half  closed  eye 
Through  the  long  vista  sees  her  darling  lake 
Even  like  herself,  diffused  in  fair  repose. 

Not  undelightful  to  the  quiet  breast 
Such  solitary  dreams  as  now  have  fill'd 
My  busy  fancy ;  dreams  that  rise  in  pe-ice, 
And  thither  lead;  partaking  in  their  flight 
Of  human  interests  and  earthly  joys. 
Imagination  fondly  leans  on  truth, 
And  sober  scenes  of  dim  reality 
To  her  seem  lovely  as  the  western  sky 
To  the  rapt  Persian  worshipping  the  sun. 
Methinks  this  little  lake,  to  whom  my  heart 
Assigned  a  guardian  spirit,  renders  back 
To  me,  in  tenderest  gleams  of  gratitude, 
Profounder  beauty  to  reward  my  hymn. 

Long  hast  thou  been  a  darling  haunt  of  mine, 
And  still  warm  blessings  gush'd  into  my  heart 
Meeting  or  parting  with  thy  smiles  of  peace. 
But  now.  thy  mild  and  gentle  character, 
More  deeply  felt  than  ever,  seems  to  blend 
Its  essence  pure  with  mine,  like  some  sweet  tune 
Oft  heard  before  with  pleasure,  but  at  last, 
In  one  high  moment  of  inspired  bliss, 
Borne  through  the  spirit  like  an  angel's  song. 

This  is  the  solitude  that  reason  loves ! 
Even  he  who  yearns  for  human  sympathies, 
And  hears  a  music  in  the  breath  of  man, 
Dearer  than  voice  of  mountain  or  of  flood. 
Might  live  a  hermit  here  and  mark  the  sun 
Kiamg  or  setting  'mid  the  beauteous  calm, 

9 


130 


'BUY  A  BROOM J" 


Devoutly  blending  In  his  happy  soul 

Thoughts  boih  of  eartli  aud  heaven ! — Yon  mounULiii- 

sme, 

Rejoicing  in  its  clustering  cottages, 
Appears  to  me  a  paradise  preserved 
From  guilt  by  Nature's  h:md,  and  every  wreath 
Of  smoke,  that  from  these  hamlets  mounts  to  heaven. 
In  its  straight  silence  holy  as  a  spire 
Rear'd  o'er  the  house  of  God, 

Thy  sanctity 

Time  yet  hath  reverenced  ;  and  I  deeply  feel 
That  innocence  her  shrine  shall  here  preserve 
For  ever.— The  wild  vale  that  lies  beyond, 
Circled  by  mountains  trod  up  by  the  feet 
Of  venturous  shepherd,  from  all  visitants, 
Save  the  free  temjiests  and  the  fowls  of  heaven, 
Guards  thee; — and  wojtled  knolls  fantastical 
Seclude  thy  image  from  the  gentler  dale, 
That  by  the  Brathay's  often  varied  voice 
Cheer'd  as  it  winds  along,  in  beauty  fades 
'Mid  the  green  banks  of  joyful  Wmdennere ! 

O  gentlt«t  lake  !  from  all  unh.xllow'd  things 
By  grandeur  guarded  in  thy  loveliness, 
Ne'er  may  the  poet  with  unwelcome  feet 
Press  thy  soft  moss  eiubathed  in  flowery  dies, 
And  shadow'd  in  thy  stillness  like  the  heavens. 
May  innocence  for  ever  lead  me  here, 
To  form  amid  the  silence  high  resolves 
For  future  life;  resolves,  that,  born  in  peace. 
Shall  live  'mid  tumult,  and  though  haply  mild 
As  infants  in  their  play,  when  brought  to  beir 
On  the  world's  business,  shall  assert  their  power 
And  majesty — and  lead  me  boldly  on 
Like  giants  conquering  in  a  noble  cause. 

This  is  a  holy  faith,  and  full  of  cheer 
To  all  who  worship  Nature,  that  the  hours, 
Pass'd  tranquilly  with  her,  fade  not  away 
For  ever  like  the  clouds,  but  in  the  soul 
Possess  a  sacred,  silent  dwelling-place, 
Where  with  a  smiling  visage  memory  sits. 
And  startles  oft  the  virtuous,  with  a  show 
Of  unsuspected  treasures.    Yea,  sweet  lake ! 
Oft  hast  thou  borne  into  my  grateful  heart 
Thy  lovely  presence,  with  a  thousand  dreams 
Dancing  and  brightening  o'er  thy  sunny  wa^e, 
Though  many  a  dreary  mile  of  mist  and  snow 
Between  us  interposed.     And  even  now, 
When  yon  bright  star  hath  risen  to  warn  me  home, 
I  bid  thee  farewell  in  the  certain  hope 
That  thou,  this  night,  wilt  o'er  my  sleeping  eyes 
Shed  cheering  visions,  and  with  freshest  joy 
Make  me  salute  the  dawn.     Nor  may  the  hymn 
Now  sung  by  me  unto  thy  listening  woods 
Be  wholly  vain, — but  haply  it  may  yield 
A  gentle  pleasure  to  some  gentle  heart. 
Who  blessing,  at  its  close,  the  unknown  bard, 
May,  for  his  sike,  upon  thy  quiet  banks 
Frame  visions  uf  his  own,  and  other  songs 
llore  beautiful  to  Nature  and  to  Thee : 

JOHN  WILSON. 


"BUY  A   BROOM?" 

[Thomas  Aird,  born  at  Bowden,  l.o..l.urghshir«, 
28th  August,  1802  ;  died  at  Castlebank,  Dumfries.  '.6th 
April,  1876.  He  early  distinguished  himself  as  a  jotit, 

1  and  his  collected  poetical  works  readied  the  fourth 
edition  in  1863.  The  Devil'*  Dream  on  Mould  A  ('ib.  ck 

I  was  one  of  his  most  popular  productions ;  but  his  real- 
istic painting  of  the  varying  aspects  of  nature  are  quite 
as  powerful,  although  not  so  startling.  As  a  tale- 
writer  he  also  won  high  reputation  in  the  da}s  of 
Scott,  Wilson,  and  Gait  Many  of  his  compositions 
first  appeared  in  Biackirood.  He  was  »ome  time  editor 
of  the  Edinburgh  Literary  Journal,  and  he  was  subse- 
quently apiwiuted  editor  of  the  Dumjriet  Herald,  which 
post  he  held  for  twenty-eight  years.  He  retired  from 
active  labour  in  1863,  and  enjoyed  twelve  years  of 
well  earned  leisure.  Of  his  prose  works  the  chief  are 
— The  Old  Bachelor  in  the  Old  Scottish  Village,  a  volume 
of  tales  and  sketches,  and  a  biography  of  D.  M.  Moir, 
prefixed  to  an  edition  of  the  latter's  poems.  The 
lollowing  tale,  on  its  first  appearance  in  Slack-wood's 
Magazine,  became  exceedingly  popular,  and  dramatic 
versions  of  it  were  produced  in  London  and  Edin- 
burgh.] 

CHAPTEB  I. 

One  beautiful  afternooon,  about  the  begin- 
ning of  the  barley  and  wheat  harvest,  young 
Frederick  Hume  arose  from  his  desk,  where, 
for  several  hours,  he  had  been  plodding  at  his 
studies,  and,  to  unbend  himself  a  little,  went 
to  his  window,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the 
neighbouring  village  of  Holydean.  A  stillness 
almost  like  that  of  the  Sabbath  reigned  over 
the  hamlet,  for  the  busy  season  had  called  the 
youngsters  forth  to  the  field,  the  sunburned 
sickleman  and  his  fair  partner.  Boys  and  girls 
were  away  to  glean:  and  none  were  left  but  a 
few  young  children  who  were  playing  quietly 
on  the  green;  two  or  three  ancient  grandames 
who  sat  spinning  at  their  doors  in  the  rich 
sunlight;  and  here  and  there  a  happy  young 
mother,  exempted  by  the  duties  of  nurse  from 
the  harvest  toils.  A  single  frail  octogenarian, 
who,  in  hobbling  to  the  almost  deserted  smithy, 
had  paused,  with  the  curiosity  of  age,  to  look 
long  beneath  his  upraised  arm  after  the  stranger 
horseman,  who  was  just  going  out  of  sight  at 
the  extremity  of  the  village,  completed  the 
picture  of  still  and  quiet  life  which  our  student 
was  now  contemplating.  After  raising  the 
window,  and  setting  open  the  door  to  win  into 
his  little  apartment  the  liquid  coolness  which 
was  nestling  among  the  green  fibrous  leaves 
around  the  casement,  he  had  resumed  his  station 
and  was  again  looking  towards  the  village, 
when,  hearing  a  light  foot  approach  the  door 
of  his  study,  he  turned  round,  and  a  young 


"BUY  A  BROOM?" 


131 


female  stranger  was  before  him.  On  seeing 
him  she  paused  at  tue  threshold,  made  a  sort  of 
reverence,  and  seemed  willing  to  retire.  From 
her  dark  complexion,  her  peculiar  dress,  es- 
pecially the  head-gear,  which  consisted  merely 
of  a  spotted  handkerchief  wound  round  her 
black  locks,  Hume  guessed  at  once  that  she 
was  a  foreigner;  and  he  was  confirmed  in  this 
supposition  when,  on  his  advancing  and  asking, 
"What  do  you  wish,  my  good  girl?"  she  held 
forward  a  light  broom,  and  said,  in  the  quick 
short  pronunciation  of  a  foreigner,  "Buy  a 
broom?" — "Pray  what  is  the  use  of  it,  my 
good  lass?"  said  Frederick,  in  that  mood  in 
which  a  man,  conscious  that  he  lias  finished  a 
dry  lesson  to  some  purpose,  is  very  ready  to 
indulge  in  a  little  badinage  and  light  banter. 
"For  beard-shaving,"  answered  the  girl  quiz- 
zically, and  stroking  his  chin  once  or  twice 
with  her  broom,  as  if  with  a  shaving-brush. 
It  might  be  she  was  conscious  that  he  was  not 
exactly  the  person  to  buy  her  broom :  or  perhaps 
she  assumed  this  light  mood  for  a  moment,  and 
gave  way  to  the  frank  and  natural  feeling  of 
youth,  which  by  a  fine  free-masonry  knows  and 
answers  to  youth,  despite  of  differences  in  lan- 
guage and  manners, — despite  of  everything. 
"Most  literally  an  argiimentum  ad  hominem, 
to  make  me  buy,"  said  the  scholar;  "so  what 
is  the  price,  fair  stranger?"  "No,  no,"  said 
the  girl,  in  quick  reaction  from  her  playful 
mood,  whilst  a  tear  started  in  her  dark  lustrous 
eye,  "but  they  bid  me  come:  they  say  you 
are  a  doctor:  and  if  you  will  be  kind  and  follow 
me  to  my  poor  brother,  you  shall  have  many 
brooms." 

On  inquiring  distinctly  what  the  girl  meant, 
our  student  was  given  to  understand,  that  her 
only  brother,  who  had  come  with  her  as  a 
harper  to  this  country,  had  fallen  sick  at  a 
gentleman's  house  about  a  mile  off,  and  that 
she,  on  learning  Mr.  Frederick  Hume  was  the 
only  person  within  many  miles  who  could  pre- 
tend to  medical  skill,  had  come  herself  to  take 
him  to  her  poor  Antonio.  After  learning  far- 
ther the  symptoms  of  the  lad's  illness,  the  young 
surgeon  took  his  lancets  and  some  simple 
medicine,  and  readily  followed  the  girl,  who 
led  the  way  to  a  neat  villa,  which,  as  Frederick 
had  heard,  was  the  residence  of  an  Italian 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Romelli.  He  had 
been  an  officer  in  the  French  service,  and  had 
come  to  this  country  with  other  prisoners;  but 
instead  of  returning  home  on  an  exchange 
being  made,  he  chose  to  continue  in  Scotland 
with  his  only  daughter,  who  had  come  over  to 
him  from  Italy,  and  who,  Frederick  had  heard, 
was  a  young  lady  of  surpassing  beauty.  Fol- 


lowing his  conductress  to  Romelli's  house, 
Hume  was  shown  into  a  room,  where,  reclining 
upon  a  sofa,  was  a  boy,  apparently  about  sixteen 
years  of  age,  the  features  of  whose  pale  face 
instantly  testified  him  to  be  brother  to  the 
maid  with  the  broom.  He  was  ministered  to 
by  a  young  and  most  beautiful  damsel,  Signorg 
Romelli  herself,  the  daughter  of  the  house,  wha 
seemed  to  be  watching  him  with  the  softest  care. 
At  the  head  of  the  sofa  stood  tae  harp  of  the 
wandering  boy.  "I  presumed,  sir,"  said  the 
lovely  hostess,  turning  to  Hume,  "to  hint  that 
perhaps  you  might  easily  be  found,  and  that 
certainly  you  would  be  very  willing  to  take  a 
little  trouble  in  such  a  case  as  this.  The 
affectionate  sister  has  not  been  long  in  bringing 
you."  "If  the  cause  of  humanity  may  be 
enforced  by  such  kind  and  beautiful  advocacy," 
returned  Frederick,  bowing,  "the  poor  skill 
which  you  have  thus  honoured,  young  lady,  is 
doubly  bound,  if  necessary,  to  be  most  attentive 
in  this  instance.  — What  is  the  matter  with  you, 
my  little  fellow?"  continued  he,  advancing  to 
the  patient.  "  Nothing,"  was  the  boy's  answer: 
and  immediately  he  rose  up  and  went  to  the 
window,  from  which  he  gazed,  heedless  of  every 
one  in  the  apartment.  "  I  am  afraid  the  boy 
is  still  very  unwell,"  said  Signora  Romelli; 
"only  look  how  pale  he  is,  sir." 

Hume  first  looked  to  the  boy's  sister,  to  as- 
sure himself  what  was  the  natural  healthy  hue 
of  these  swarthy  strangers;  then  turning  to  the 
boy  himself,  he  could  not  but  observe  how 
much  the  dead  yellow  of  his  face  differed  from 
the  life-bloom  which  glowed  in  her  dark  brown 
cheek.  His  eye  at  the  same  time  burned  with 
arrowy  tips  of  restless  lustre,  such  as  are  kindled 
by  hectic  fever.  He  resisted,  however,  all  ad- 
vances on  the  part  of  our  surgeon  to  inquire 
farther  into  his  state  of  health,  impatiently 
declaring  that  he  was  now  quite  well;  then 
resuming  his  harp,  and  taking  his  sister  by  the 
hand,  he  seemed  in  haste  to  be  gone.  "My 
father  is  not  at  home,"  said  the  young  lady  of 
the  house  to  Hume;  "nevertheless  they  must 
abide  here  all  night,  for  I  can  easily  see  that 
boy  is  unable  to  travel  farther  this  evening: 
and  besides  they  are  of  my  own  native  country. 
Use  your  prerogative,  sir,  and  don't  let  him 
go." 

In  spite  of  the  surgeon's  persuasions,  how- 
ever, and  heedless  of  Signora  Romelli  and  his 
sister,  who  joined  in  the  remonstrance  against 
his  departure,  the  boy  would  be  gone,  even 
though  at  the  same  time  he  declared  there  was 
no  place  elsewhere  where  he  wished  particularly 
to  be.  "He  is  a  capricious  boy,  to  reject 
your  excellent  kindness,  Miss  Romelli,"  said 


132 


'BUY  A   BROOM?" 


Frederick:  "and  I  doubt  not  he  will  treat,  in 
the  same  way,  a  proposal  I  have  to  make.  With 
your  leave,  young  lady,  I  shall  try  to  win  him, 
with  his  sister,  toour  houseall  night,  lest  he  grow 
worse  and  need  medical  aid. "  From  the  un- 
happy appearance  of  the  young  musician,  this 
proposal  seemed  so  good,  that  it  was  readily 
acquiesced  in  by  his  sister,  and  by  the  kind  lady 
of  the  house,  provided  the  boy  himself  could  be 
brought  to  accede  to  it,  which,  to  their  joyful 
surprise,  he  most  readily  did,  so  soon  as  it  was 
signified  to  him.  "With  your  permission, 
Miss  Romelli,"  said  Frederick,  as  he  was  about 
to  depart,  "  I  shall  dojustice  to  your  benevolence, 
and  walk  down  to-morrow  forenoon  to  tell  you 
how  the  poor  lad  is." 

At  this  the  fair  Signora  might,  or  might  not, 
slightly  blush,  as  the  thing  struck  her,  or  the 
tone  in  which  the  offer  was  made  gave  warrant. 
She  did  for  a  moment  blush;  but  of  course  her 
answer  was  given  very  generally,  "that  she 
would  be  most  happy  to  hear  her  young  coun- 
tryman was  quite  well  on  the  morrow." 

The  affectionate  sister  gratefully  kissed  the 
hand  of  her  kind  hostess.  As  for  the  boy 
himself,  with  a  look  half  of  anger  he  took  the 
former  by  the  hand  and  drew  her  hastily  away, 
as  if  he  grudged  the  expression  of  her  gratitude. 
He  had  not  moved,  however,  many  paces  for- 
ward, till,  quitting  his  sister's  hand,  he  turned, 
and  taking  Signora  Romelli's,  he  kissed  it 
fervently,  with  tears,  and  at  the  same  time 
bade  the  Virgin  Mother  of  Heaven  bless  her. 

Struck  with  the  remarkable  manner  of  this 
boy,  our  student  tried  to  engage  him  in  conver- 
sation by  the  way,  but  he  found  him  shy  and 
taciturn  in  the  extreme;  and  as  he  had  already 
shown  himself  capricious,  he  now  evinced  an 
equal  obstinacy  in  refusing  to  allow  either  of 
his  companions  to  carry  his  harp,  which  being 
somewhat  large,  seemed  not  well  proportioned 
to  the  condition  of  the  bearer,  who,  besides 
being  manifestly  unwell,  was  also  of  a  light 
small  make.  From  the  sister,  who  seemed  of 
a  frank  and  obliging  temper,  Frederick  learned 
some  particulars  of  their  earlier  history  and 
present  mode  of  life.  Her  name,  she  said,  was 
Charlotte  Cardo,  and  her  brother's  Antonio 
Cardo.  They  were  twins,  and  the  only  surviving 
children  of  a  clergyman  in  Italy,  who  had  been 
dead  for  two  years.  Their  mother  died  a  few 
hours  after  giving  them  birth.  "After  the 
loss  of  our  father,"  added  the  maiden,  "we  had 
no  one  to  care  much  for  us;  yet  I  would  Iiave 
dwelt  all  the  days  of  my  life  near  their  beloved 
graves,  had  not  my  brother,  who  is  of  a  restless 
and  unhappy  temperament,  resolved  to  wander 
in  this  country.  How  could  I  stay  alone? 


How  could  I  let  him  go  alone?  So  a  harp  was 
bought  for  him;  and  now  every  day,  from 
village  to  village,  and  up  and  down  among  the 
pleasant  cots,  he  plays  to  the  kind  lolk,  and  I 
follow  him  with  my  brooms.  We  have  been  a 
year  in  this  country,  and  I  know  not  when  we 
shall  return  home,  for  Antonio  says  he  cannot 
yet  tell  me."  Hume  having  expressed  his 
surprise  that  she  could  talk  English  so  well  on 
such  a  short  residence  in  this  country,  she 
explained,  by  informing  him,  that  both  her 
brother  and  herself  had  been  taught  the  language 
so  carefully  by  their  father,  that  they  could 
talk  it  pretty  fluently  before  they  left  Italy. 
During  the  brief  narrative  of  his  sister,  the 
boy,  Antonio,  kept  his  eye  intensely  upon  her, 
as  if  ready  to  check  every  point  of  explanation; 
but  Charlotte  ended  her  short  statement  with- 
out any  expressed  interruption  on  his  part, 
and  again  his  eye  became  self-contained  and 
indifferent. 

The  next  expression  of  the  boy's  character 
was  no  less  singular  and  unexpected.  On 
observing  a  company  of  reapers,  in  a  field  by 
the  way-side,  taking  their  brief  mid-afternoon 
rest,  he  advanced  to  the  gate,  opposite  which, 
at  a  little  distance,  they  were  seated,  and, 
unslinging  his  harp,  began  to  play,  filling  up 
the  sweetly  dotted  outline  of  the  instrumental 
music  with  his  own  low  but  rich  vocal  song. 
After  the  first  preamble,  he  nodded  to  his  sister, 
and  instantly  her  loud  and  thrilling  voice 
turned  magnificently  into  the  same  strain. 
On  first  ^iew  of  the  musician  and  his  party, 
the  rude  young  swains  of  the  field,  for  favour, 
no  doubt,  in  their  mistresses'  eyes,  began  to 
play  off  their  rough  wit ;  but  in  another  minute 
these  bolts  were  forgotten,  and  the  loud  daffing 
of  the  whole  company  was  completely  hushed. 
At  first  the  song  was  grave  and  lofty,  but  by 
degrees  it  began  to  kindle  into  a  more  airy 
strain,  till,  as  it  waxed  fast  and  mirthful,  the, 
harvest  maids  began  to  look  knowingly  to  their 
partners,  who,  taking  the  hint,  sprang  to  their 
feet,  hauled  up  their  sweet  abettors,  were  mated 
in  a  moment,  and  commenced  a  dance  among 
the  stubble,  so  brisk,  that  the  tall  harvest  of 
spiky  wheat,  standing  by,  rustled  and  nodded 
to  them  on  its  golden  rods.  Aged  gleaners 
stood  up  from  their  bowing  task,  and  listened 
to  the  sweet  music,  while  the  young  came 
running  from  all  parts  of  the  field,  and,  throw- 
ing down  their  handfuls,  began  madly  to  caper 
and  to  mix  with  the  more  regular  dance.  The 
old  gray  bandsters,  as  they  stood  rubbing  in 
their  hands  ears  of  the  fine  grain,  smiled  as 
much  under  the  general  sympathy,  as  from  a 
consciousness  of  their  own  superior  wisdom 


'BUY  A  BROOM?" 


133 


above  such  follies.  Even  the  overseer  himself, 
who  stood  back,  silently,  was,  for  a  minute, 
not  scandalized  at  such  proceedings,  which 
were  converting  a  time  of  repose  for  his  weary 
labourers  into  mad  exertions,  which  went  posi- 
tively to  unfit  them  for  the  remaining  darg  of 
the  day.  Consideration,  remonstrance,  anger, 
were,  however,  soon  mantling  on  his  face,  and 
he  came  forward ;  but  he  was  anticipated,  for 
the  principal  minstrel,  who,  with  something 
like  a  smile  on  his  countenance,  had  seen  at 
first  the  quick  influence  of  his  music  on  the 
swink't  labourers  of  the  sweltering  day,  had 
gradually  grown  dark  and  severe  in  his  look, 
and  now  stopped  his  song  all  at  once,  he  refitted 
his  harp  to  his  shoulder  and  walked  away 
without  looking  for  guerdon,  and  heedless  of 
the  rustic  swains,  who  shouted  after  him  and 
waved  their  rye-straw  hats. 

With  the  greatest  good-humour  our  young 
surgeon  had  indulged,  to  the  very  top  of  their 
bent,  this  musical  frolic  of  the  two  foreigners, 
sitting  down  by  the  wayside  till  it  was  fairly 
over,  and  now  he  resumed  his  way  with  them. 
Antonio  was  silent  and  shy  as  before;  but  the 
manner  in  which  he  looked  round  him  over  the 
beautiful  country,  showed  that  his  spirit  was 
touched  with  its  glad  scenes.  All  the  western 
sky  was  like  an  inflamed  sea  of  glass,  where 
the  sun  was  tracking  it  with  his  fervid  and 
unallayed  wheels.  Beneath  his  golden  light 
lay  the  glad  lands,  from  right  to  left  white  all 
over  with  harvest;  thousands  were  plying  in 
the  fields;  sickles  were  seen  glinting  on  the  far 
yellow  uplands,  and  nearer  were  heard  the 
reapers'  song,  and  the  gleaners  calling  to  each 
other  to  lay  down  their  handfuls  in  the  furrows. 

The  road  now  led  our  party  by  an  orchard 
where  boys  were  up  in  the  trees  shaking  down 
the  fruit.  The  little  fellows,  all  joyous  in  their 
vacation  from  study,  were  tugging  with  might 
and  main  at  and  among  the  clefted  branches; 
their  sisters  below  gathered  the  apples  in 
baskets,  whilst  the  happy  father,  walking  about 
with  his  lady,  decided  their  appeals  as  to  the 
comparative  beauty  of  individual  apples.  Al- 
lured by  the  sound,  of  the  fruit  hopping  on  the 
ground  two  or  three  stray  waifs  had  left  off 
their  gleanings  in  a  neighbouring  field;  and 
the  ragged  little  urchins  were  down  on  their 
hands  and  knees,  thrusting  their  heads  through 
holes  in  the  hedge  which  separated  the  orchard 
from  the  road.  One  of  them  having  been 
caught  behind  the  ear  by  the  stump  of  a  thorn, 
found  it  impossible  to  draw  back  his  head, 
and  in  this  predicament  he  had  to  bawl  for 
assistance.  This  drew  the  attention  of  the  lady; 
and,  after  the  rogue  had  been  released,  the 


whole  party  were  summoned  to  the  gate,  and 
blessed  with  a  share  of  the  bounties  of  the  year, 
which  the  kind  lady  dispensed  to  them  through 
means  of  her  own  dear  little  almoners.  Whether 
it  was  that  he  liked  the  benevolence  of  this 
scene,  or  whether  he  was  reminded  of  his  own 
beautiful  Italy,  or  from  whatever  other  affec- 
tion, the  young  harper  again  took  his  harp, 
and  waked  those  wild  and  dipping  touches, 
which  seem  more  like  a  sweet  preamble  than  a 
full  strain.  He  again  accompanied  it  with  his 
voice,  and  his  sister  did  the  same.  The  young 
girls  laid  down  their  baskets  of  fruit,  and  drew 
to  the  gate;  the  trees  had  rest  for  a  while  from 
shaking,  while  the  fair-haired  boys,  with  faces 
flushed  and  glowing  from  their  autumnal  exer- 
cise, looked  out  in  wonder  from  between  the 
clefts  of  the  boughs.  When  the  song  ceased, 
the  lady  offered  money,  but  neither  of  the 
minstrels  would  accept  it.  On  the  contrary, 
Antonio  took  his  sister  by  the  hand,  and  hurried 
her  away  from  the  gate,  ere  one  of  the  children 
could  bring  the  basket  of  fruit  for  which  she 
had  run,  to  give  a  largesse  from  it  to  the 
strangers.  Frederick,  after  talking  a  few 
minutes  to  the  lady  and  gentleman,  and  telling 
them  how  he  had  fallen  in  with  the  foreigners, 
followed  and  overtook  his  companions,  just  as 
they  had  come  in  sight  of  Greenwells  Cottage, 
where  he  resided.  "So  there  is  our  house  now, 
just  beyond  the  village,"  said  Frederick,  ad- 
vancing to  them.  "The  lady  with  whom  I 
live  will  be  very  kind  to  you;  and  you  must 
stay  with  her  for  a  few  days,  and  give  her 
music,  which  she  loves.  What  say  you,  pretty 
Charlotte?"  Antonio  here  stepped  forward 
between  his  sister  and  Hume,  and  said,  with 
quick  emphasis,  "  I  will  go  with  you,  sir,  and 
I  shall  let  Charlotte  follow  me." 

On  arriving  at  the  cottage,  Frederick  intro- 
duced the  strangers  to  his  relative,  Mrs.  Mather, 
with  Avhom  he  resided,  and  who,  on  learning 
their  circumstances,  kindly  received  them  as 
her  guests.  They  would  have  taken  their 
departure  next  day,  but  in  this  they  were 
resisted  by  the  charitable  old  lady,  who  farther 
won  from  them  the  promise  that  they  would 
stay  with  her  for  at  least  a  week.  Ere  the 
expiry  of  that  time,  whether  from  the  caprice 
or  benevolence  of  her  nature,  or  from  her 
especial  liking  for  Charlotte,  who  had  gaine  1 
rapidly  upon  her  affections,  Mrs.  Mather  had 
conceived  the  design  of  adopting  the  two 
Italians,  and  preparing  them  for  situations 
worthy  of  their  good  descent;  and  she  was 
confirmed  in  her  purpose  when,  on  breaking 
the  matter  to  Frederick  Hume,  it  met  with  his 
entire  concurrence.  The  next  step  was  to  gaiu 


134 


"BUY  A  BEOOM?" 


the  consent  of  Antonio,  which  might  be  no 
easy  matter,  as  he  seemed  a  strange  and  im- 
practicable boy;  but,  somewhat  to  the  surprise 
of  Frederick,  no  sooner  was  the  proposal  made 
to  him,  than  he  heartily  acceded  to  it.  As  for 
his  sister,  independent  of  her  dislike  to  a 
wandering  life,  and  her  growing  attachment  to 
Mrs.  Mather,  her  brother's  will  was,  in  all  cases, 
her  law.  It  was  then  settled  that  Charlotte 
should  be  confidential  maid  to  the  old  lady,  to 
read  to  her  at  night,  and  assist  her  in  making 
dresses  for  the  poor,  among  whom  she  had  a 
number  of  retainers;  while  Antonio  should  be 
sent  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Baillie's,  a  clergyman,  a 
few  miles  off,  to  board  with  him,  and  finish  his 
education,  which  had  been  neglected  since  his 
father's  death,  that  so  he  might  be  fitted  for  a 
liberal  profession.  Proud  though  Mrs.  Mather 
was  of  this  scheme,  her  self-complacency  was 
not  without  one  qualification,  in  the  cold  and 
doubtful  manner  in  which  Miss  Pearce  nodded 
to  the  old  lady's  statement  and  explanation  of 
her  plan.  As  this  woman,  Miss  Pearce,  had 
it  in  her  power,  ere  long,  grievously  to  affect 
the  fortunes  of  young  Hume,  we  shall  notice 
her  here  a  little  fully.  She  was  the  only 
daughter  of  a  half-pay  captain,  whose  death 
left  her  with  a  trifling  annuity,  and  the  pro- 
prietorship of  a  small  house  in  the  village  of 
llolydean.  After  the  death  of  her  husband,  a 
wealthy  retired  merchant,  who  had  spent  the 
last  years  of  his  life  at  Greenwells,  Mrs.  Mather, 
having  no  family,  began  to  cast  about  for  a 
companion,  and  Miss  Pearce  was  soon  found 
out  to  be  one  of  those  indispensable  parasitical 
maidens  whom  old  ladies  like  Mrs.  Mather 
impress  into  active  service,  in  the  seasons  of 
raspberries,  and  the  elder- vintages; — hold  long 
consultations  with  on  the  eve  of  entertainments; 
— retain  as  their  own  especial  butt  in  company, 
and  a  fag  partner  at  whist  when  a  better  fourth 
hand  is  wanting: — appeal  to  in  case  of  a  (shall 
we  name  it?)  lie,  when  there  is  danger  of 
detection; — cherish  and  moralize  with  when 
the  party  is  over; — and  finally  would  not 
dismiss,  though  one  were  to  rise  from  the  dead 
and  cry  out  against  the  parasite.  In  addition 
to  these  implied  qualifications,  the  amiable 
creature  was  a  monopolist  in  ailments;  and,  of 
course,  careless  about  the  complaints  of  others, 
of  which,  indeed,  when  within  reach  of  Mrs. 
Mather's  sympathy,  she  seemed  to  be  jealous. 
In  her  person  she  was  lean  and  scraggy,  with 
a  hard  brown  face,  kiln-dried  by  nervous  head- 
aches. Her  figure  was  very  straight,  and  she 
was  elastic  in  her  motions  as  whalebone  or 
hickory,  and  might  have  been  cut  with  advantage 
into  tapes  for  tying  up  bundles  of  her  favourite 


tracts,  or  sinewy  bowstrings  for  Cupid,  for  lug 
arrows,  not  to  be  shot  at,  but  to  be  slioifrom. 
We  need  scarcely  add,  after  all  this,  that  her 
nose  was  very  long,  and  so  sharp  it  might  have 
cleft  a  hailstone.  When  Frederick  Hume  was 
thrown  a  helpless  orphan  on  the  world,  and 
Mrs.  Mather,  who  was  a  distant  relative  of  his 
mother's,  proposed  to  take  him  to  herself  and 
bring  him  up  as  if  he  were  her  own  son,  Miss 
Pearce,  though  she  could  not  set  her  face  directly 
against  such  a  charitable  arrangement,  yet 
laboured  to  modify  it  by  a  counter-proposition, 
that  the  boy  should  be  provided  for,  but  by  no 
means  brought  to  the  cottage.  She  was  then, 
however,  but  in  the  spring-dawn  of  favour  with 
her  patroness,  and  her  opinion  being  overruled, 
the  boy  was  brought  home  to  Mrs.  Mather, 
and  daily  grew  in  her  affections.  During  his 
childhood,  Miss  Pearce  advanced  steadily  iu 
favour,  and  she  was  too  jealous  of  divided 
influence,  and  too  Jesuitical  in  her  perseverance, 
not  to  improve  every  opportunity  of  challenging 
and  modifying  the  growing  affection  of  Mrs. 
Mather  for  her  adopted  son,  whose  bold  and 
frank  nature  was  endearing  him  to  every  one. 
When  this  would  not  do,  she  began  to  change 
her  battery,  and  tried  by  a  new  show  of  kind- 
ness, to  make  a  party  in  the  young  61eve  him- 
self, whom  yet  she  thoroughly  hated.  Whether 
it  was,  however,  that  he  knew  her  enmity,  and 
never  forgave  her  for  having  once  or  twice 
secretly  and  severely  pricked  him  with  pins; 
or  whether,  with  the  quick  instinct  of  childhood, 
which  knows  in  a  moment,  and  despises,  the 
kind  notice  bestowed  upon  it  for  the  sake  of 
currying  favour  with  parents,  he  virtually  set 
down  Pearce's  new  attentions  to  such  a  motive; 
certain  it  is,  if  he  did  not  positively  hate  her, 
he  never  once  stroked  her  purring  vanity ;  and 
she,  on  the  other  hand,  was,  from  his  indif- 
ference, confirmed  in  her  dislike.  As  Frederick 
grew  up,  he  had  many  opportunities  of  shaking- 
Miss  Pearce's  influence  with  her  patroness;  but, 
as  he  thought  her  despicable  merely,  and  not 
dangerous,  he  was  too  magnanimous  to  molest 
her.  In  that  scheme  of  life  to  which  the  heart 
has  long  responded,  what  was  at  first  a  jarring 
element  hath  become  a  constituent  part  of  the 
general  sympathy:  and  from  this  it  might  be 
that  Hume  not  only  continued  to  endure  Miss 
Pearce,  but  even  loved  her  with  the  affection 
of  habit. 

One  might  have  supposed,  that  ere  the  time 
to  which  our  narrative  now  refers,  Miss  Pearce 
would  have  been  tired  of  intrigue,  and  would 
have  seen  the  folly  of  being  jealous  in  the 
favour  whifh  she  had  proved  exactly,  and  from 
which  she  knew  so  little  was  ever  to  be  gained 


'BUY  A  BROOM?" 


135 


or  lost;  but  a  Jesuit  would  be  a  Jesuit  still, 
were  the  Church  of  Rome  utterly  annihilated, 
and  petty  intrigue  merely  for  its  own  sake,  and 
little  selfish  arrangements  of  circumstances, 
although  nothing  was  to  be  gained,  constituted 
the  very  breath  of  Miss  Pearoe's  nostrils;  and, 
therefore,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that, 
when  Mrs.  Mather  stated  her  design  of  adopt- 
ing the  two  Italians,  as  above  mentioned,  she 
heard  it  with  that  umph,  and  nod,  which  ex- 
press—not that  a  thing  has  been  assented  to — 
but  merely  that  it  has  been  literally  and  dis- 
tinctly heard.  Her  objections  were  entered 
under  a  masked  battery.  She  began  by  praising 
Mrs.  Mather's  unbounded  benevolence  of  heart. 
She  hoped  they  would  be  grateful ;  they  could 
not  be  too  grateful ;  nay,  they  could  never  be 
grateful  enough.  She  allowed  the  conversation 
to  take  a  general  turn,  then  tried  to  control  it 
gradually  to  her  purpose,  and  found  an  oppor- 
tunity of  relating,  as  if  incidentally,  how  a 
certain  lady,  whom  once  she  knew,  had  been 
ruined  by  a  foreign  protegtie  whom  she  had 
unwisely  cherished.  She  touched  upon  swind- 
ling, vagrants,  and  obscurely  alluded  to  legis- 
lature, and  the  alien  act.  Notwithstanding 
all  such  hints,  however,  the  thing  was  settled 
in  the  affirmative;  the  boy  Antonio  was  sent 
to  stay  with  Mr.  Baillie,  and  Charlotte  com- 
menced work  under  the  immediate  auspices  of 
her  new  patroness.  The  regularity  and  certainty 
of  her  new  mode  of  life,  soon  subdued  the 
roving  qualities  which  her  character  might 
have  slightly  acquired,  and  which  quickly  gave 
a  corresponding  wildness  to  the  features.  Her 
dark  and  comely  beauty  remained  quick  and 
expressive,  but  it  was  sobered  under  the  accom- 
paniments of  an  English  dress,  and  tamed  by 
the  meek  offices  of  our  country's  excellent 
morality.  Her  eye  was  still  drunk  with  light 
as  when  morning  coines  upon  the  streams,  but 
it  waited  and  took  commands  from  the  looks 
of  her  mild  hostess.  The  footstep  of  the  re- 
claimed wanderer  might  still  be  light  and  airy, 
but  now  she  went  about  the  house  softly,  under 
an  excellent  ministry.  In  health  she  became 
Mrs.  Mather's  delight,  and  still  more  so  when 
the  infirmities  of  the  good  old  lady  required 
delicate  attentions.  Like  the  glorious  Una  of 
Spenser's  Fairy  Qiie.cn,  the  kind  eyes  of  this 
beautiful  Italian,  even  amidst  affliction,  "made 
a  Ight  in  a  shady  place." 

Frederick  Hume  forgot  not  his  promise  to 
wait  upon  Signora  Romelli,  and  inform  her, 
that  his  minstrel-patient  was  quite  well  on  the 
morning  after  the  day  when  he  was  ill  in  her 
honse.  At  the  same  time,  he  presented  a  card 
from  Mrs.  Mather,  requesting  a  mutual  ac- 


quaintanceship. A  friendly  intercourse  grew 
up  accordingly,  and,  ere  the  fall  of  the  season, 
Signor  Romelli  and  his  daughter  were  at  least 
once  every  week  at  Greenwells  Cottage,  to  the 
huge  dismay  of  Miss  Pearce,  but  the  delight 
of  our  young  surgeon,  who  began  most  deeply 
to  love  the  beautiful  Julia  Romelli.  She  was 
taller  and  fairer  than  the  maid  Cardo:  her 
locks  were  nut-brown :  her  eye  was  a  rich  com- 
promise betwixt  the  raven  and  the  blue  dove, 
a  deep  violet, 


-"like  Pandora's  eye, 


When  first  it  darkeu'd  with  immortal  life." 

She  was  quick,  capricious,  and  proud;  bold  in 
her  pouting  displeasure,  which  was  like  a 
glancing  day  of  sunshine  and  stormy  showers: 
but  then  she  was  ardent  in  her  friendships, 
and  very  benevolent;  ready,  withal,  nay  in 
haste,  to  confess  her  faults,  in  which  case  her 
amende  honorable,  and  her  prayer  for  pardon, 
were  perfectly  irresistible.  A  heart  of  her  am- 
bition, and  so  difficult  to  be  won,  insensibly 
exalted  her  in  the  eyes  of  the  dashing  and 
manly  Frederick;  who,  without  any  ostensible 
calculation  of  selfish  vanity,  loved  her  the  more 
deeply,  that  she  was  a  conquest  worthy  of 
boldest  youth.  Notwithstanding  her  superior 
qualifications,  and  the  ardour  of  his  suit,  we 
infer  that  the  fair  Julia  kept  shy  and  aloof, 
and  at  the  same  time  that  her  lover  was  only 
the  more  deeply  determined  to  make  her  his, 
from  the  circumstance  that,  in  a  few  months, 
he  had  condescended  to  calculate  how  he  stood 
in  her  father's  affections,  and  was  studious  to 
accommodate  himself  to  the  manner  of  the 
signor,  who  was  grave  in  his  deportment,  and 
almost  saturnine,  seldom  moved  to  smiles,  and 
never  to  laughter;  and  who,  though  he  could 
talk  fluently,  and  with  eloquence,  seemed,  in 
general,  to  wear  some  severe  constraint  upon 
his  spirit. 

CHAPTER  II. 

Things  were  in  this  state  when  the  winter 
session  came  round,  which  called  Frederick  to 
Edinburgh,  to  prosecute  his  studies.  The  sum- 
mer following  he  continued  in  town  studying 
botany;  and  after  making  a  tour  through  the 
Highlands,  it  was  about  the  middle  of  autumn 
ere  he  returned  to  Greenwells  Cottage. 

He  found  Charlotte  Cardo  improved  in  beauty 
and  accomplishments,  and  advanced  in  favour 
with  every  one  who  knew  her;  even  Miss  Pearce 
herself  condescended  to  patronize  her  publicly 
and  privately.  But  what  pleased  him  most  of 
all,  was  to  find  that  Julia  Romelli  was  still  a 
frequent  visitor  at  the  cottage.  The  season  of 


136 


'BUY  A  BROOM?" 


harvest,  too,  had  given  a  vacation  to  Mr. 
Baillie's  scholars,  and  Antonio  Cardo  was  now 
at  home  beside  his  sister;  and  the  harp  and 
the  song  of  the  Italian  twins  were  not  forgotten 
when  the  sweet  gloaming  came  on.  Deeply 
occupied  in  spirit  as  Hume  was  with  thoughts 
of  his  fair  and  shy  signora,  he  was  yet  con- 
strained to  attend  to  the  abrupt  and  strange 
man  testation  of  Antonio's  character,  which 
broke  forth,  from  time  to  time,  mocking  the 
grave  tenor  of  his  ordinary  behaviour.  Accord- 
ing to  his  reverend  tutor's  statement,  he  had 
been  a  very  diligent  scholar;  and  he  testified 
it  thus  far,  that  he  talked  English  with  great 
force  and  propriety.  With  the  boys  of  his  own 
age  he  had  consorted  little,  and  seemed  to  take 
no  delight  in  conversing  with  any  one,  though 
now  and  then  he  would  talk  a  few  minutes  to 
the  old  men  of  the  village,  and  sometimes  to 
the  children.  He  was  now  equally  taciturn  at 
Mrs.  Mather's;  but  occasionally  he  broke  forth, 
expressing  himself  in  rapid  and  earnest  elo- 
quence, and  showing  a  wonderful  power  of 
illustrating  any  point.  From  his  manner  alto- 
gether towards  Miss  Romelli,  his  devoted  at- 
tentions at  one  time,  and  at  another  his  proud 
shyness — and  from  his  dignified  refusal,  often, 
to  play  on  the  harp  when  Hume  wished  to 
dance  with  that  lady — Frederick  could  not  but 
guess  that  he  was  a  rival  candidate  for  Julia's 
love.  But  the  most  striking  and  unaccountable 
demonstration  of  the  boy's  character,  was  the 
risible  paleness  which  came  over  his  face,  the 
current — the  restless  flow — of  his  small  features, 
and  the  impatience  of  his  attitudes,  now  shrink- 
ing, now  swelling  into  bold  and  almost  threaten- 
ing pantomime,  whenever  Signor  Romelli  came 
near  him.  Visibly,  too,  he  was  often  seen  to  start 
when  he  heard  his  countryman's  deep  voice  : 
he  spoke  to  Romelli  always  with  an  eloquent 
empresaement  in  his  tone,  as  if  his  thoughts 
were  crowding  with  his  crowding  blood:  he 
looked  him  eagerly  in  the  face :  he  often  went 
round  about  him  like  an  anxious  dog. 

One  night  Romelli,  more  open  and  talkative 
than  usual,  had  told  two  or  three  stories  of  the 
sea,  when  Antonio,  who  had  listened,  with  a 
sharp  face,  and  his  whole  spirit  peering  from 
his  eyes,  came  forward,  and  sitting  down  on 
the  carpet  before  his  countryman,  looked  up 
in  his  face,  and  said,  "I  will  now  tell  you  a 
legend  of  the  sea,  Captain  Romelli." 

CABDO'S    LEGEND. 

"A  rude  captain  in  the  South  Seas  had  mur- 
dered his  mate,  an  excellent  youth,  for  pre- 
tended disobedience  of  orders:  and  for  this 
crime  God  sent  the  black- winged  overtaking 


tempest,  which  beat  his  ship  to  pieces,  and  he 
was  cast  alone  upon  a  desert  island.  It  was 
night  when  he  recovered  from  his  drenched 
dream,  and  sat  down  on  a  green  bank  above 
the  sea-marge,  to  reflect  on  his  situation.  The 
storm-racks  had  fled  away:  the  moon  came 
peering  round  above  the  world  of  seas,  and  up 
through  the  cold  clear  wilderness  of  heaven: 
the  dark  tree-tops  of  the  forest,  which  grew 
down  to  the  very  sands,  waved  in  the  silver 
night.  But  neither  this  beauty  after  the  tem- 
pest, which  should  have  touched  his  heart  with 
grateful  hope,  nor  the  sense  of  his  deliverance, 
nor  yet  the  subduing  influence  of  hunger,  could 
soften  that  mariner's  soul ;  but  he  sat  till 
morning,  unrepentant  of  his  murder,  fortifying 
himself  in  injustice,  hardening  his  heart,  kick- 
ing against  the  pricks.  About  sunrise  he 
climbed  up  into  a  high  tree,  to  look  around 
him.  The  island,  so  far  as  he  could  see  on  all 
sides,  seemed  one  wild  and  fenceless  forest:  but 
there  was  a  high  hill,  swathed  in  golden  sun- 
light, perhaps  three  or  four  miles  inland,  which, 
if  he  could  reach  and  climb  it,  would  give  him 
a  wide  prospect,  and  perhaps  show  him  some 
inhabited  district.  To  make  for  this  hill,  he 
descended  from  the  tree,  and  struck  into  the 
woods,  studious  to  pursue  the  straight  line  of 
route  which  he  laid  down  for  himself,  in  order 
to  reach  the  mountain. 

"  The  forest  was  full  of  enormous  trees,  of  old 
prodigious  growth,  bursting  into  wild  gums, 
and  rough  all  over  with  parasitical  plants  and 
fungi  of  every  qolour,  like  monstrous  livers; 
whilst  up  and  down  the  trunks  ran  strange 
painted  birds,  pecking  into  the  bark  with  their 
hard  bills,  and  dotting  the  still  air  with  their 
multitudinous  little  blows.  Deeper  from  the 
engulfed  navel  of  the  wood  came  the  solitary 
cries  of  more  sequestered  birds.  Onward  went 
the  wicked  captain,  slowly,  and  with  little 
caution,  because  he  never  doubted  that  he 
should  easily  find  the  mountain;  but  rough 
and  impervious  thickets  turned  him  so  oft,  and 
so  far  aside,  that  gradually  he  forgot  his  pro- 
posed track,  and  became  quite  bewildered.  In 
this  perplexity,  he  again  climbed  a  high  tree, 
to  discover  the  bearing  of  the  hill;  but  it  was 
no  longer  to  be  seen.  Nothing  was  before  him 
and  around  him  but  a  boundless  expanse  of 
tree-tops,  which,  under  a  sky  now  darkened  to 
a  twilight,  began  to  moan  and  surnre  like  a  sea. 
Descending  in  haste,  he  tried  to  retrace  his 
steps;  but  this  it  was  out  of  his  power  distinctly 
to  do;  and  he  only  went  deeper  into  the  wood, 
which  began  to  slope  downwards  per-  eptibly. 
Darkness,  in  the  meantime,  thickened  among 
the  trees,  which  were  seen  standing  far  fan. 


'BUY  A  BROOM?' 


137 


as  in  a  dream,  crooked  in  their  trunks,  like 
the  bodies  of  old  men,  and  altogether  unlike 
the  trees  of  an  upper  world.  Everything  was 
ominously  still,  till  all  at  once  the  millions  of 
leaves  were  shaken,  as  if  with  small  eddying 
bubbles  of  wind.  Forthwith  came  the  tempest. 
The  jagged  lightning  lanced  the  forest-gulfs 
with  its  swift  and  perilous  beauty;  whilst  over- 
head the  thunder  was  crushed  and  jammed 
through  the  broken  heavens,  making  the  liv- 
ing beams  of  the  forest  to  quiver  like  reeds. 
Whether  real  or  imaginary,  the  wicked  captain 
thought  that  he  heard,  at  the  same  time,  the 
roar  of  wild  beasts,  and  saw  the  darkness 
spotted  with  their  fiery  eyes;  and  to  save  him- 
self from  them,  he  climbed  up  into  a  tree,  and 
sat  in  its  mossy  clefts.  As  the  storm  above 
and  beneath  ranged  away,  and  again  drew 
nearer  and  nearer,  with  awful  alternations,  the 
heart  of  the  wicked  captain  began  to  whirl 
within  him,  tugged  at  by  immediate  horrors, 
and  the  sense  of  ultimate  consequences,  from 
his  helpless  situation.  In  his  agony,  he  twisted 
himself  fro.n  branch  to  branch,  like  a  monkey, 
braiding  his  legs,  and  making  rings  with  his 
arms;  at  the  same  time  crying  out  about  his 
crime,  and  babbling  a  sort  of  delirious  repent- 
ance. In  a  moment  the  tempest  was  over- 
blown, and  everything  hushed,  as  if  the  heavens 
wished  to  listen  to  his  contrition.  But  it  was 
no  contrition:  nothing  but  an  intoxicated  in- 
continence,— a  jumble  of  fear  and  blasphemy: 
such  a  babbling  as  a  man  might  make  if  he 
were  drunk  with  the  devil's  te.ars,  gathered,  as 
they  came  glittering  like  mineral  drops  down 
the  murky  rocks  of  damnation,  in  bottles  made 
of  the  tough  hearts  of  old  vindictive  queens. — 
Holy  Mother!  Do  you  hearme,  Signor  Romelli? 
By  the  Holy  Mother  of  Grace!  you  and  I, 
signor,  think  he  ought  to  have  repented  sin- 
cerely, do  we  not? — Well,  what  next?  God 
does  not  despise  any  working  of  the  sinner's 
heart,  when  allied,  even  most  remotely,  to  re- 
pentance: and  because  the  wicked  captain  had 
felt  the  first  tearings  of  remorseful  fear,  God 
sent  to  him,  from  the  white  land  of  sinless 
children,  the  young  little  Cherub  of  Pity.  And 
when  the  wicked  captain  lifted  up  his  eyes  and 
looked  into  the  forest,  he  saw  far  off,  as  at  the 
end  of  a  long  vista,  the  radiant  child  coming 
on  in  naked  light;  and,  drawing  near,  the 
young  Being  whispered  to  him,  that  he  would 
lead  him  from  the  forest,  and  bring  a  ship  for 
him,  if  he  would  go  home,  and  on  his  knees 
confess  his  crime  to  the  aged  parents  of  the 
youth  whom  he  had  murdered,  and  be  to  them 
as  a  son.  for  the  only  son  whom  they  had  lost. 
The  wicked  captain  readily  vowed  to  perform 


these  conditions,  and  so  the  Babe  of  Pity  led 
him  from  the  forest,  and,  taking  him  to  a  high 
promontory  above  the  sea-shore,  bade  him  look 
to  the  sea: — and  the  promised  ship  was  seen 
hanging  like  a  patch  of  sunshine  on  the  far 
blue  rim  of  the  waters.  As  she  came  on  and 
came  near,  the  heart  of  the  wicked  captain 
was  again  hardened  within  him,  and  he  deter- 
mined not  to  perform  his  vow. 

"'Your  heart  has  again  waxed  obdurate,' 
said  the  figure,  who  still  lived  before  him  like 
a  little  white  dial  in  the  sun;  'and  I  shall 
now  turn  the  ship  away,  for  I  have  her  helm 
in  my  hand.  Look  now,  and  tell  me  what 
thou  seest  in  the  sea.'  The  wicked  captain 
looked  for  the  ship,  but  she  had  melted  away 
from  off  the  waters;  and  when  he  turned,  in  his 
blind  fury,  to  lay  hold  on  the  White  Babe,  it 
was  vanished  too. 

'"Come  back  to  me,  thou  imp,'  cried  the 
hungry  blasphemer,  whilst  his  face  waxed  grim 
with  wild  passions,  'or  I  will  hurl  this  dagger 
at  the  face  of  the  Almighty.'  So  saying,  he 
drew  a  sharp  clear  dagger  from  his  side,  and 
pointing  it  upwards,  threw  it  with  all  his  might 
against  the  sky.  It  was  now  the  calm  and 
breathless  noontide,  and  when  this  impious 
dagger  was  thrown  up,  not  a  breeze  was  stirring 
in  the  forest  skirtsor  on  beaked  promontory;  but 
ere  it  fell,  a  whirling  spiral  blast  of  wind  came 
down  from  the  mid-sky,  and,  catching  the  dag- 
ger, took  it  away  glittering  up  into  the  blue 
bosom  of  heaven.  Struck  with  a  new  horror, 
despite  of  his  hardened  heart,  the  wicked  cap- 
tain stood  looking  up  to  heaven  after  his  dag- 
ger, when  there  fell  upon  his  face  five  great 
drops  of  blood,  as  if  from  the  five  wounds  of 
Christ.  And  in  the  same  minute,  as  he  was 
trying  to  wipe  away  this  Baptism  of  Wrath, 
he  reeled  and  fell  from  the  lofty  promontory 
where  he  stood  into  the  sea,  into  the  arms  of  the 
youth  whom  he  had  murdered  and  thrown 
overboard,  and  whose  corpse  had  been  brought 
hither  by  the  tides  and  the  wandering  winds. 
So  the  wicked  Captain  sunk  for  ever  in  the 
waters. " 


"Now,  Signor  Romelli,"  said  the  boy  An- 
tonio, after  a  brief  pause,  "  what  do  you  think 
of  my  legend?" 

Ere  an  answer  'could  be  returned,  a  broad 
sheet  of  lightning  flashed  in  at  the  window 
(for  the  sky  all  day  had  been  thunderous  and 
warm),  and  instantly  it  was  followed  by  a  tre- 
mendous peal  of  thunder,  which  doubly  startled 
the  whole  company  sitting  in  the  twilight 
room. 


138 


:BUY  A  BROOM?" 


"Get  up,  foolish  boy,"  said  Romelli,  his 
deep  voice  a  little  tremulous,  whilst  at  the 
same  time  he  struck  Antonio  gently  with  his 
foot.  Not  more  quickly  did  the  disguised 
Prince  of  Evil,  as  represented  by  Milton,  start 
up  into  his  proper  shape  at  the  touch  of  Ithur- 
iel's  spear,  than  did  the.  young  Italian  spring 
up  at  the  touch  of  Romelli's  foot.  His  very 
stature  seemed  dilated,  and  his  pantomime 
was  angry  and  threatening,  as  for  a  moment 
he  bent  towards  the  signor:  but  its  dangerous 
outline  was  softened  by  the  darkness,  so  that 
it  was  not  distinctly  observed;  and  next  mo- 
ment the  youth  drew  back  with  this  remark — 
"  By  Jove,  captain,  there  was  a  flash  from  the 
very  South  Sea  island  in  question!  what  a 
coincidence!  what  a  demonstration  was  there! 
and  oh!  what  a  glorious  mirror-plate  might  be 
cut  from  that  sheet  of  fire,  for  the  murderer  to 
see  himself  in.  Thank  God,  none  of  us  have 
been  in  the  South  Seas,  like  the  wicked  cap- 
tain in  the  legend. " 

There  was  no  further  reply  to  this,  and  Sig- 
nor  Romelli  was  silent  and  unusually  pale 
during  the  remainder  of  the  evening.  After 
waiting  one  hour,  during  which  there  followed 
no  more  thunder  and  lightning,  and  then  a 
second  hour  till  the  moon  was  up,  he  arose 
with  his  daughter  and  went  home. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Again  the  season  came  round  which  called 
Frederick  Hume  to  town  for  another  session, 
to  finish  his  medical  studies,  and  get  his  de- 
gree as  a  physician;  and  once  more  he  prepared 
to  take  a  tender  leave  of  his  Julia,  whom  he 
loved  more  than  fame  or  life.  Overcome  by 
his  deep  passion,  he  confessed  it  all  to  the 
maiden;  and  when  he  caught  her  trembling  at 
his  declaration,  how  could  she  explain  her 
emotion  otherwise  than  by  confessing,  de- 
spite of  her  pride,  that  their  love  was  mutual? 
or  answer  for  it  better  than  by  pledging  her 
troth  for  ever,  in  return  for  his  vow  of  con- 
stancy ? 

About  Christmas,  Antonio  Cardo  came  from 
Mr.  Baillie's  to  spend  a  few  holidays  at  Green- 
wells  Cottage.  One  night  Signora  Romelli 
gravely  assumed  tin  character  of  a  prophetic 
improvisatrice,  and  told  the  future  fortunes  of 
Mrs.  Mather's  household.  "And  now,"  said 
she  to  Antonio,  "come  forward,  young  harper; 
you  look  there  for  all  the  world  as  if  you  were 
about  to  be  set  down  for  a  murderer."  The 
boy  started  and  went  out,  but  in  a  few  minutes 
lie  returned,  and,  flinging  himself  on  his  knees 


before  Miss  Romelli,  he  prayed  her,  for  the 
love  of  Heaven,  to  reserve  her  ungentle  pro- 
phecy. "  Up,  foolish  boy,"  said  Julia,  "why, 
you  look  indeed  as  if  your  conscience  were 
fairly  measured;  as  if  the  red  cap  fitted  you. 
Well,  Antonio,  you  are  either  waggish  or  simple 
to  an  uncommon  stretch. "  The  boy  rose  with  a 
groan,  and.  J  ulia's  father  entering  the  room  at 
this  moment,  he  took  up  a  small  knife  from 
the  table,  and  shaking  it  at  the  Signor  Captain, 
said,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  emotion,  "  Your 
foolish  daughter,  sir,  says  that  I  am  to  be  a 
murderer."  On  no  answer  being  returned,  he 
bit  the  handle  of  the  knife  for  a  moment,  and 
then  laid  it  down. 

Next  evening,  a  party  being  assembled  at 
the  cottage,  and  Julia  Romelli  being  there, 
she  was  of  course  an  object  of  general  attention 
and  the  most  assiduous  gallantry.  During  a 
dance,  Antonio,  who  had  refused  to  play  on 
the  harp,  sat  moodily  in  a  corner,  watching 
the  graceful  signora,  and  louring  against  the 
smiles  of  her  partner;  heedless  at  the  same 
time  of  his  sister,  who,  when  she  stopped  near 
him  in  the  dance,  gently  chid  him  one  while, 
and  then,  smiling  in  her  happy  mood  with  a 
tearful  glance,  which  asked  him  to  share  her 
joy,  patted  him  below  the  chin,  and  bid  him 
rise  and  dance  merrily.  Miss  Romelli  saw  the 
sisterly  love  of  Charlotte,  and,  in  her  good 
nature,  a  little  while  after,  she  made  up  to  the 
youth,  and,  speaking  to  him  as  if  he  were 
merely  a  shy  and  timid  schoolboy,  insisted 
upon  his  taking  part  in  the  dance.  "  Prithee, 
do  not  think  me  quite  a  boy,"  said  he  in  return. 
Signora,  as  the  best  rejoinder,  repeated  her 
invitation,  upon  which  he  started  up,  and 
flinging  his  arms  with  mad  violence  around 
her  neck,  saluted  her  before  the  whole  company. 
Julia  disengaged  herself,  blushing.  There  was 
bridling  on  the  part  of  the  ladies;  hearty 
laughter  and  cheers  from  old  bachelors;  and 
some  of  the  young  gallants  looked  very  high, 
and  ready  to  call  the  offender  to  account.  Sig- 
nor Romelli  looked  grave  and  moody  after  the 
strange  salutation;  and  poor  Charlotte  hung 
down  her  head,  and  gradually  withdrew  from 
the  room.  As  for  the  culprit  himself,  he 
walked  haughtily  out,  and  was  followed  by 
Mrs.  Mather,  who  took  him  to  task  in  another 
apartment.  The  amiable  Miss  Pearce  had 
likewise  followed  to  approve  her  former  pro- 
phecy of  trouble  from  such  guests;  but  her 
patroness  was  not  in  the  vein  for  tolerating 
oflicious  wisdom,  and  forestalling  that  virgin's 
charitable  purpose,  she  turned  her  to  the  right- 
about in  a  moment. 

"  Aud  now,  mad  boy,"  demanded  the  old 


"BUY  A  BROOM?" 


189 


lady,  "  what  meant  this  outrageous  solecism  ? 
For  my  sake,  what  did  you  mean,  Antonio 
Cardo?"  "Kind  and  gracious  lady,"  he  re- 
plied, "do  not  question  me  just  now.  But  if 
you  would  have  me  saved  from  perdition,  bind 
me  hand  and  foot,  and  send  me  far  away  over 
seas  and  lands."  "  If  this  is  all  you  have  to 
say  for  yourself,"  returned  Mrs.  Mather,  "it 
is  certainly  a  very  pretty  speech;  though  it  is 
far  above  my  comprehension.  No — no;  the 
thing  was  a  breach  of  good  manners:  but  I 
don't  exactly  see  that  your  precious  soul's  en- 
dangered, or  that  you  are  entitled  to  be  sent  to 
Botany  Bay  for  stealing  a  bit  kiss — doubtless 
your  first  offence."  "  Well,  my  excellent  apo- 
logist," said  Antonio,  "  if  you  will  use  a  little 
address,  and  bring  Signora  Julia  hither,  I  will 
ask  her  forgiveness  perhaps."  "You  are  a 
very  foolish  young  man  indeed,"  returned  the 
old  lady,  who  was  one  of  those  persons  whose 
humour  it  is,  without  abating  from  their  real 
good  nature,  to  rise  in  their  demands  or  re- 
proaches when  anything  like  concession  has 
been  made.  "I  say  it — a  very  foolish  boy; 
and  I  have  a  great  mind  to  let  the  young  lady 
be  angry  at  you  for  ever;  and  so  I  don't  think 
I  shall  either  bring  her  or  send  her." 

Cardo  knew  very  well  that  these  words  of 
his  hostess,  as  she  left  the  apartment,  implied 
anything  but  a  decisive  negative;  and  he  sat 
still  waiting  the  entrance  of  Julia,  who,  after  a 
few  minutes,  made  her  appearance  accordingly, 
with  Mrs.  Mather.  "  Now,  my  most  gracious 
hostess,"  said  the  youth,  rising  and  turning  to 
the  latter,  "you  must  give  us  leave  for  a  brief 
while,  for  I  have  something  particular  to  say 
to  this  young  lady. "  Mrs.  Mather  looked  to 
signora.  "0  yes,  by  all  means,"  said  Julia, 
"  do  according  to  his  request,  and  let  me  hear 
this  wonderful  secret." 

When  Mrs.  Mather  had  retired,  the  boy 
Cardo  advanced,  and  said  to  Julia  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  emotion,  "  Will  you  judge  me, 
fair  Italian,  and  condemn  me  by  cold-hearted 
rules?  If  you  do,  I  ask  ten  thousand  pardons 
for  my  rudeness  to-night."  "And,  pray,  what 
right  have  I,  sir,  to  give  dispensations  beyond 
the  laws  of  wise  and  prudent  society?"  "0, 
let  me  vary  my  question  then,  beautiful  wo- 
man," said  the  passionate  boy,  flinging  himself 
on  his  knees  before  her, — "Can  you  forgive 
my  deep  soul  then  for  loving  you  to  madness, 
Julia  Komelli?"  "Now,  shall  I  laugh  at  you 
for  a  very  foolish  boy,  or  shall  I  bid  you  rise 
at  once,  if  you  would  not  have  me  leave  the 
apartment  as  quickly?  Now,  sir,  that  you  are 
up  (for  you  seem  to  dread  the  imputation  of 
boyhood),  let  me  tell  you,  that  when  I  spoke 


of  the  rights  of  society  I  gave  no  liberty  to 
suppose  that  my  own  maidenly  feeling  would 
be  more  liberal  than  such  a  law.  The  truth 
is,  sir,  I  have  nothing  farther  to  add  or  hear, 
unless  you  sent  for  me  to  ask  pardon  for  your 
breach  of  good  manners,  in  which  case,  I  read- 
ily allow,  that  I  mistook  you  so  much  as  heed- 
lessly to  give  you  some  provocation.  As  for 
the  offence  itself,  really  you  seem  so  very 
foolish  that  I  know  not  whether  I  do  right  in 
saying  (with  a  smile),  that  it  was  not  by  any 
means  very  grievous."  "  Is  that  all? — is  that 
all?"  said  the  Italian  boy.  "No — no;  you 
must  let  my  heart  love  you,  and  you  must  love 
me  in  return.  0,  if  you  value  your  father's  life, 
and  your  own  peace;  and  if  you  would  save  me 
from  perdition,  you  must  become  my  wife, 
lady!"  "Why,  sir,  I  do  think  it  were  charity 
to  believe  that  you  have  lost  your  reason.  You 
are  most  foolish  else.  I  will  not  stay  flippantly 
to  debate  your  boyish  proposal;  but,  young 
sir,  Antonio  Cardo  I  think  is  your  name,  can 
you — "  "Mother  in  Heaven!"  interrupted 
Cardo.  "Do  you  think  so?  only  think  so? 
Why,  my  sister's  name  is  Charlotte  Cardo,  and 
by  Heaven  I  think  she  is  a  lady.  You  will 
say,  Are  we  not  dependent?  Yes,  to  that:  for 
a  certain  overwhelming  reason  I  have  allowed 
it  for  a  little  while;  but  soon  the  whole  shall  be 
accounted  for."  "Condescend  not  for  me, 
sir,"  said  Julia,  "to  vindicate  your  dignity  or 
pride:  I  have  no  right,  nor  am  I  disposed,  to 
offend  either."  "Perhaps  not,  young  lady. 
But  be  wise  and  wary  as  you  list,  cold  and 
cruel,  I  shall  only  love  you  the  more;  or  plague 
you  with  my  demon :  there  are  but  two  alter- 
natives; and  I  must  be  miserable  in  either,  I 
am  afraid."  "Sir,"  said  Julia  angrily,  and 
walking  away,  "  I  will  pay  the  only  compli- 
ment which  I  can  reasonably  bestow  upon  you, 
by  telling  you  that  your  conduct  obliges  me  to 
discontinue  my  visits  in  future  at  this  house." 
"One  moment — stay  then,  signora,"  cried 
Antonio,  stepping  between  her  and  the  door, 
"  Listen  to  me  this  once.  Mrs.  Mather  loves 
you  dearly,  and  so  does  Frederick  Hume,  and 

so   does  Charlotte   Cardo,  and  so  does  . 

Well,  so  do  you  also  love  to  visit  at  this  house; 
and  never  for  me  shall  you  forego  that  delight, 
never,  for  me  shall  the  three  excellent  persons 
above  named  forego  your  delightful  presence. 
I  shall  leave  this  house  for  ever  to-morrow 
morning,  nor  plague  you  more."  "I  must 
now  do  you  justice,  sir,"  said  the  fair  Italian, 
"  and  though  you  certainly  speak  like  a  foolish 
boy,  I  will  not  urge  this,  but  address  you  as  a 
frank,  open-minded,  honourable  man,,  and  tell 
you  at  once  that  my  affections  are  already 


140 


"BUY  A  BROOM?" 


engaged,  and  my  vow  of  constancy  made  to 
anothar. "  "Enough  said,  Signora  Romelli:  I 
can  sruess  who  that  highly  favoured  youth  is; 
and  I  will  say  there  is  not  a  nobler  heart  than 
his  in  all  the  earth.  Forgive  me,  young  lady, 
and  let  me  not  detain  you  longer.  Be  assured 
too,  my  impertinent  solicitations  are  ended  for 
ever." 

The  lady  withdrew,  and  Antonio,  locking 
the  door,  paced  hurriedly  up  and  down  the 
apartment.     Signor  Romelli  in  the  meantime 
had  retired  from  the  house.     The  yellow  moon 
was  swimming  through  the  streams,  but  not 
in  unison  with  the  lovely  night  was  the  heart 
of  this  Italian  captain  as  he  walked  forth  along  ! 
the  bank.     "  By  Heaven,"  said  he  to  himself,  j 
"this  boy,  Cardo,  knows  it  all!  whether  from  ! 
prophetic  divination,  or  whether  the  sea  hath  ' 
given  up  her  dead  to  declare  against  me.     I 
will  as  soon  believe  that  those  hot  seething 
brains  of  his  could  produce  the  literal  dagger 
which  his  hand  seems  always  in  the  act  of 
clutching,  as  that  they  could  frame  that  cele- 
brated sea-legend,  without  some  horrid  col-  ' 
lusion.      Well,  'tis  passing  strange:    but  the 
imp  seems  daily  ripening  for  some  disclosure,  • 
or  for  some  act  of  vengeance,  and  I  must  fore- 
stall him  in  both.      How  shall  it  be  done? 
Stay  now,  let  me  see — he  is  nearly  mad ;  that 
must  be  allowed  by  all — well,  then,  can  I  not 
get  a  professional  verdict  to  that  effect?    Stay 
now,  is  not  Stewart,  the  principal  physician  of 
the  lunatic  asylum  in  the  neighbouring  town, 
a  suitor  of  my  daughter?     I  can  easily  see  that 
he  is  bold  and  unprincipled,   and  the  other 
consulting  physicians  are  old  women.     Well,  j 
may  I  not  possess  Stewart  with  the  belief  that 
my  daughter  loves  this  Antonio  Cardo,  and  get 
him  to  warrant  the  removal  of  the  boy  to  the 
mad-house,  in  virtue  of  his  late  strange  behav-  • 
iour,  which,  to  common  observation,  will  amply  j 
justify  a  charge  of  lunacy?     Stewart,  I  think, 
will  do  it  in  the  faith  that  my  daughter  will 
never  give  herself  to  one  that  has  been  in  bed- 
lam; and  I,  for  my  share,  will  gain  the  secur- 
ity, that  whatever  he  may  hint  or  declare  in 
future,  relative  to  what  I  think  he  knows  of 
me,  will  be  easily  ascribed  to  a  taint  of  remain-  j 
ing  madness.     Any  period,  however  short,  in  ! 
that  redoubted  place,  will  serve  Stewart's  mo-  j 
tives  and  mine;  but  if  the  horrid  sympathy  of  ; 
the  house  make  a  convert  of  his  soul  to  the  I 
propriety  of  his  chains,  so  much  the  better.  I 
Now,  Stewart  is  at  present  in  the  cottage,  and  | 
why  may  not  the  thing  be  carried  into  effect 
this  very  night?     By  his  authority,  we  shall 
get  constables  from  the  village  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay." 


Romelli  lost  no  time  in  making  his  represen- 
tations to  Stewart,  who,  hearing  the  signer's 
professions  in  his  favour  relative  to  Julia's  love, 
if  Cardo  could  be  morally  black-balled,  gave  in 
without  hesitation  to  the  wicked  scheme.  Mrs. 
Mather,  overcome  by  the  explanations  of  the 
doctor,  and  by  the  dread  of  having  a  madman 
in  her  house,  was  constrained  also  to  accede, 
and  charitably  undertook  to  detain  Charlotte 
in  a  remote  part  of  the  house,  till  her  brother 
should  be  seized  and  carried  off,  which  was  to 
be  done  as  quietly  as  possible.  The  door, 
however,  of  the  room  in  which  he  had  locked 
himself  had  to  be  forced,  as  he  could  not  be 
prevailed  upon  to  open  it;  and  ere  the  constables 
could  do  this,  and  overcome  the  resistance  which 
he  offered  to  their  attempts  to  seize  him,  the 
whole  house  had  been  alarmed,  and  crowded  to 
see  what  was  the  matter.  Charlotte,  when  she 
saw  him  in  custody,  uttered  a  piercing  shriek, 
and  fell  in  a  swoon  to  the  ground;  some  of  the 
ladies  retired  with  her;  others,  with  compassion, 
drew  around  the  hapless  boy,  while  Stewart, 
who  was  a  bold  and  callous  tactician,  would 
not  attend  the  unhappy  sister  till  he  had  en- 
forced the  necessity  of  sending  the  brother  to 
the  madhouse. 

"Ha!"  cried  poor  Antonio,  at  mention  of 
this  horrid  destination;  and  a  convulsive  shud- 
der ran  through  his  frame.  He  turned  a  rue- 
ful glance  on  Julia  Romelli,  whilst  at  the  same 
time  he  trembled  as  if  his  slight  body  would 
have  been  shaken  to  pieces.  "  So,  you  ruf- 
fians," he  said,  at  length,  "  you  have  crushed 
my  poor  sister  down  to  the  earth,  and  all  for 
what?  Where  is  my  broken  flower?  well, — 
she  is  better  hence.  Lead  on: — and,  gentle- 
men, I  am  not  very  mad  perhaps.  Look  to 
Charlotte,  and  tell  her  I  have  escaped— any- 
thing but " Lead  him  out  then.  He  bowed 

to  the  company  with  a  kind  of  wild,  unstead- 
fast  energy ;  and  was  led  away  manacled. 

Much,  indeed,  was  Frederick  Hume  surprised 
and  shocked  to  hear  from  Mrs.  Mather's  next 
letter,  of  Antonio's  fate,  and  he  determined  to 
visit  the  country  as  soon  as  possible,  for  the 
express  purpose  of  seeing  the  poor  Italian  boy. 
A  few  weeks  after  this,  he  was  sitting  in  his 
apartment  one  evening  with  two  or  three  of 
his  college  chums,  when  his  landlady  announced 
to  him  that  a  young  lady  was  in  another  apart- 
ment waiting  to  see  him.  "Why,  this  is 
something,"  said  Frederick,  rising  and  follow- 
ing the  mistress  of  the  house — "who  can  it 
possibly  be?"  "Ah,  you  are  a  lucky  dog, 
Hume."  observed  one  of  his  companions. 
"  Some  very  fond,  faithful,  or  despairing  shep- 
herdess!" said  a  second. 


"BUY  A  BKOOM?" 


141 


Little  did  these  gay  chaps  know  the  cause  of 
such  a  visit,  for  it  was  poor  Charlotte  Cardo 
herself;  and  no  sooner  did  she  see  Frederick, 
than,  grasping  his  proffered  hand,  she  fell  on 
her  knees,  and  looking  him  wistfully  in  the 
face,  cried,  "  Oh,  my  poor  brother,  have  mercy 
on  me,  good  sir,  and  help  him."  "  Poor  child!" 
said  Hume,  raising  her,  "  I  am  afraid  I  can 
do  little  for  him;  but  I  shall  lose  no  time  now 
iii  seeing  him.  Can  I  do  anything  for  him  in 
the  meantime?"  "  I  do  not  know,  sir,"  said 
Charlotte,  confusedly;  aware,  probably  for  the 
first  time,  that  she  had  undertaken  a  foolish 
journey.  "  And  have  you  come  all  this  way, 
Charlotte,  for  my  poor  help?"  "  0,  speak  not, 
Mr.  Hume,  of  miles,  or  hundreds  of  miles,  in 
such  a  case,  if  you  can  do  anything  for  us.  1 
am  told  there  are  great  physicians  in  this  city. 
Perhaps  you  know  them,  and  perhaps  "- 
She  stopped  short.  "Well,  my  good  girl," 
said  Frederick,  clapping  her  on  the  shoulder, 
"for  your  sisterly  love,  everything  shall  be 
done  for  your  brother  that  man  can  do.  I 
shall  see  him  first  myself,  and  that  ere  long; 
and  then  I  shall  consult  on  his  case  with  one 
or  two  eminent  doctors,  friends  of  mine." 
"God  bless  you,  sir,  all  the  days  of  your  life!" 
said  the  Italian  girl,  sobbing  almost  hysteri- 
cally from  her  full  and  grateful  heart.  "  I 
have  no  other  friend  on  earth  that  I  can  seri- 
ously trust ;  they  are  all  hollow,  or  foolish  in 
their  kindness."  "Does  Mrs.  Mather  know 
of  this  pious  journey  of  yours,  Charlotte?" 
asked  Frederick.  "  Forgive  me,  sir — she  tried 
rery  much  to  dissuade  me,  and  bade  me  write 
if  I  chose — but,  pardon  me,  sir,  I  thought  it 
better —  "To  see  me  personally,  you 

would  say?  Well,  Charlotte,  you  argue  fairly 
that  letters  are  but  second-rate  advocates, 
though,  to  do  myself  justice,  I  think,  in  such 
a  case  as  this  of  your  brother's  illness,  the 
mere  representation  of  the  thing  was  enough 
to  make  me  do  my  very  utmost.  Now,  Char- 
lotte, that  you  may  not  be  ultimately  disap- 
pointed, let  me  warn  you—  '  The  maiden 
here  looked  so  piteously,  that  he  was  fain  to 
add,  "  Well,  I  have  good  hopes  that  he  may 
soon  recover."  To  this  Charlotte  answered 
nothing;  for  in  the  natural  sophistry  of  the 
heart  under  an  overwhelming  wish,  she  durst 
not  appear  confident,  lest  she  should  again 
provoke  the  doubts  of  her  medical  Aristarch, 
as  if  the  evil  were  not,  when  she  had  not  heard 
it  literally  expressed  by  another.  Yet  still, 
when  Frederick  tried  to  change  the  conver- 
sation, by  asking  indifferent  questions,  she 
brought  it  back  to  the  subject  which  engrossed 
her  heart,  by  citing  instances  of  some  who  had 


been  confined  as  lunatics,  though  they  were 
not,  and  of  others  who  had  gradually  recovered 
their  reason. 

Resigning  Charlotte  to  his  landlady's  care 
for  the  night,  Frederick  in  the  morning  pro- 
vided for  her  a  seat  in  the  mail,  and  took 
leave  of  her,  with  the  promise,  that  he  would 
make  a  point  of  being  at  Greenwells  in  little 
more  than  a  week. 

In  less  than  ten  days  he  visited  Antonio  ia 
his  cell,  and  found  the  poor  boy  lying  lowly  in 
his  straw,  and  chained,  because,  as  the  keeper 
explained,  he  had  made  the  most  desperate 
efforts  to  get  out.  He  arose,  as  Hume  entered, 
and,  with  a  suspicious  look,  demanded,  "  Are 
you  also  come  to  spy  out  the  nakedness  of  the 
land?"  "Do  you  not  know  me,  Antonio?" 
asked  Frederick,  kindly.  "  I  think  I  do," 
answered  the  boy,  with  a  faint  smile:  "but  do 
you  know  me  under  this  sad  change  of  affairs?" 
"  You  have  not  been  very  well,  I  understand?" 
said  Hume.  "  No  doubt  you  were  given  to 
understand  so,"  was  the  answer;  "  but  if  you 
will  request  that  official  gentleman  to  retire  for 
a  little,  I  shall  undeceive  you. " 

Frederick  did  so;  and  the  keeper,  having 
withdrawn  accordingly,  the  poor  patient,  with 
a  tear  in  his  eye,  looked  eagerly  at  Hume,  and 
said,  "Are  you  too,  sir,  against  me?  Holy 
Virgin!  will  you  also  leave  me  here,  and  go 
and  tell  the  world  I  am  truly  mad?"  "  Well, 
my  good  boy,"  said  Frederick,  "you  must  be 
very  quiet,  and  you  will  soon  give  the  lie  to 
the  charge;  I  am  glad  to  see  you  as  you  are." 
"  God  in  heaven !  to  be  sure,  sir.  As  you  say, 
very  quiet  I  must  be,  and  reason  good;  and  all 
that.  Let  me  tell  you,  Dr.  Hume,  you  have 
not  a  good  method  with  madmen.  Nothing 
manages  them  so  well  as  grave  banter,  half- 
angry  and  half-yielding ;  or  stern  and  unmiti- 
gated awe,  which  overrules  them  as  the  lower 
range  of  the  creation  is  controlled  by  the  '  hu- 
man face  divine. '  You  may  try  these  methods 
with  me,  if  you  think  me  bona  fide  insane. 
But,  oh,  rather  hear  me,  sir,  this  once,  and 
give  me  justice:  take  for  granted  that  I  am  in 
my  right  mind:  affect  neither  kindness  nor 
menace  in  your  words:  but  speak  with  measman 
to  man,  and  then  you  shall  not  lose  perhaps  the 
only  opportunity  of  saving  my  body  and  my 
spirit  from  this  unhallowed  coercion,  for  I  may 
soon  be  ill  enough."  "  Whatever  you  have  to 
state,"  returned  Hume,  "  I  shall  in  the  first 
place  hear  you  without  interruption."  "I 
readily  grant,  sir,"  said  the  supposed  maniac, 
"that  you  have  good  reason  to  believe  me  in- 
sane, and  that  it  is  a  very  difficult  thing  for 
you  to  be  satisfied  of  the  contrary.  On  the 


142 


'BUY  A   BROOM?' 


other  hand,  it  is  no  easy  matter  for  me,  chafed 
and  tortured  as  I  have  been  by  my  horrid  con- 
finement, to  refrain  from  the  'winged  words' 
of  an  indignant  spirit.  But  I  shall  try  to  be 
calm  and  consistent;  and  you  must  try  to  be 
unprejudiced  and  discriminating.  You  see, 
sir,  I  go  to  work  scarcely  like  a  lunatic,  since 
I  have  sense  and  reason  to  provide  allowance 
for  preliminary  difficulties."  "  Very  well;  tell 
me  what  you  wish,  good  Antonio;  what  can  I 
do  for  you?"  "  Either  you  have  little  tact,  Dr. 
Hume,  or  you  still  think  me  mad,  since  you 
speak  in  that  particular  tone  of  voice — I  know 
it  well.  The  God  of  heaven  help  me  in  my 
words  at  this  time,  that  I  may  not  speak  from 
my  full  and  burning  heart,  and  you  misinter- 
pret me!" 

"My  dear  fellow,  Antonio  Cardo,"  said 
Frederick,  with  kind  earnestness,  "  for  your 
own  sake,  and  for  your  sister  Charlotte's  sake, 
I  will  not  leave  this  part  of  the  country,  till  I 
have  thoroughly  sifted  the  cause  and  reason- 
ableness of  your  confinement ;  yet  you  must 
allow  me  to  do  the  thing  with  prudence.  I 
may  not  be  able  to  get  you  released  to-night; 
but,  as  I  said  before,  I  am  disposed  this  very 
moment  to  hear  and  judge  what  you  have  to 
propose  or  state.  I  think  you  ought  not  now 
to  be  suspicious  of  me!" 

"  Ave  Maria!"  said  Antonio — "  Holy  Virgin 
of  Grace,  you  have  sent  one  wise  and  honour- 
able man  to  my  wretched  cell;  and  I  think  my 
hour  of  deliverance  must  now  be  at  hand. 
What  shall  I  say  to  you,  Dr.  Hume?  What 
argument  shall  I  try,  to  lay  fast  a  foundation 
on  which  your  faith  in  my  sanity  may  be  built? 
For,  0 !  assuredly  beneath  the  gracious  eye  of 
Heaven,  there  cannot  be  a  fitter  temple  for 
Charity  to  dwell  in.  The  truth  is,  Frederick 
Hume,  I  may  at  times  in  my  life  have  felt  the 
madness  of  whirling  and  intense  passion;  and 
I  have  a  horrid  fear  that  my  days  shall  close 
in  darkness,  in  pits  which  I  dare  not  name,  in 
dreams,  the  dark  alienation  of  the  mind.  I 
am  thus  candid,  the  better  to  assure  you  that 
my  soul  at  present  is  self-possessed  and  compact, 
of  firm  and  wholesome  service.  Think,  too, 
that  I  have  leapt  against  my  cage  till  my  heart 
has  been  well-nigh  breaking ;  that  my  spirit, 
from  feverish  irritability,  has  been  a  furnace 
seven  times  heated,  in  the  next  alteration  of  feel- 
ings, to  be  overwhelmed  by  a  suffocating  calm- 
ness. Remember  that  I  have  lived  for  months 
amidst  those  horrid  cries  which  thicken  the  air 
of  this  place:  and.  above  all,  that  I  know  well 
I  should  not  be  here.  Such  things  may  make 
me  mad  at  times;  but  say,  sir,  am  not  I  toler- 
ably well,  every  drawback  considered  ? "  "  Good 


God!"  answered  Hume,  "what  then  could  be 
their  purpose  or  meaning  in  this  confinement 
of  yours!"  "  My  heart,  Dr.  Hume,  is  ready  to 
cast  out  corresponding  flames  with  your  indig- 
nant speech  and  question;  but  I  shall  be  calm, 
and  not  commit  myself,  because  I  still  think 
God  hath  brought  round  a  gracious  hour  and  a 
just  man.  What  shall  I  say  to  you  again,  Dr. 
Hume?  Try  me  by  any  process  of  logic. 
Shall  it  be  an  arijumentnm  ad  kominem,  as  my 
kind  old  tutor  styles  it?  Shall  I  reason  on  my 
present  situation,  and  tell  you  that  things  are 
not  well  managed  in  this  place?  The  treat- 
ment is  too  uniform,  and  general,  and  unmo- 
dified; whereas,  by  a  proper  scale,  the  patient 
should  be  led  from  one  degree  of  liberty  to 
another,  according  to  his  good  behaviour,  that 
so  he  might  calculate,  that  so  he  might  exercise 
and  strengthen  his  reason,  that  so  he  might 
respect  himself,  and  gradually  improve.  Now, 
sir,  judge  me  aright.  Nature,  in  dread  appre- 
hension, sets  me  far  above  vanity:  and  I  will 
ask  you  have  I  not  uttered  deep  wisdom?  You 
have  not  detected  aught  like  the  disjointed 
fervour  of  lunacy  in  my  speech  !  My  thoughts 
are  not  abrupt  and  whirling,  but  well  attem- 
pei'ed,  and  softly  shaded,  as  the  coming  on  of 
sleep. "  "  By  my  soul,  Cardo,"  said  Frederick, 
"  I  think  you  have  been  most  grossly  abused." 
"Have  I  not,  have  I  not?"  "Whose  doing 
was  this?  and  can  you  guess  why  it  was?" 
asked  Hume.  "  I  owe  it  to  Romelli  and 
Stewart,"  answered  Antonio.  "  The  wherefore 
I  know  not,  unless  it  be  that  I  have  loved  too 
ardently,  and  shall  never  cease  to  love,  Signora 
Romelli.  Go  away,  sir,  and  be  like  the  rest  of 
the  world:  leave  me  here  to  perish:  for  you, 
too,  love  the  maiden,  and  may  be  offended  at 
my  passion."  "  It  is  my  business,  in  the  first 
instance,"  answered  Hume,  "to  follow  common 
humanity  and  justice.  I  shall  instantly  over- 
haul this  damnable  oppression,  and  call  the 
above  men  to  task.  You  must  be  quiet  in  the 
meantime."  "0,  let  it  not  be  long,  then! — let 
it  not  be  long! — let  it  not  be  long! — If  you 
knew  how  my  good  angel,  young  Charlotte 
Cardo,  has  made  me  hope  for  your  coming!  If 
you  knew  how  I  have  counted  the  weeks,  the 
days,  the  hours,  the  minutes,  for  you!  How 
my  heart  has  beat  loudly  at  every  sound  for 
you,  from  morning,  till  night  darkened  above 
my  rustling  straw,  and  all  for  your  coming! 
And  in  the  tedious  night-watches  too!  when 
my  soul  longed  in  vain  to  rest  for  a  little  while 
beyond  the  double  gates  of  horn  and  ivory,  in 
the  weary  land  of  Morpheus !  Merciful  sleep ! — 
Merciful  sleep!  How  many  worn  and  ghost- 
like spirits  yearn  and  cry  to  be  Avithin  the 


"BUY  A  BROOM?" 


143 


dreamy  girdle  of  thy  enchanted  land.  Let 
them  in,  O  God!  The  body's  fever  and  the 
mind's  fever,  calentures  of  the  brain  and 
caresrings  of  the  pulse,  revenge,  and  appre- 
hension, and  trembling,  fears  of  death  that 
visit  me  in  the  night  when  I  lie  here,  terror 
to  be  alone  lest  indeed  I  lose  my  reason — and 
oh !  hope  deferred — and  then  outwardly,  around 
me  day  and  night,  beleaguering  the  issues  of 
my  soul,  and  making  me  mad  by  the  mere  dint 
of  habit,  wild  laughter  unfathomed  by  reason, 
sharp  cries,  'as  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike,' 
shrieking  groans  as  from  the  hurt  mandrake, 
muddy  blasphemies,  enough  to  turn  the  sweet 
red  blood  of  the  hearer  into  black  infatuation 
and  despair;  add  all  these  precious  ingredients 
to  the  boiling  heart  of  pride  within,  and  what 
have  you  got?  0,  something  worse  than  a 
witch's  cauldron,  boiling  'thick  and  slab'  with 
the  most  damned  physical  parcels,  and  casting 
up  the  smeared  scums  of  hell !  And  such,  sir, 
has  been  my  lot  here,  and  therefore  I  pray  that 
God  may  put  swift  gracious  thought  for  me 
into  your  heart !  0,  let  it  not  be  long,  for  the 
knowledge  of  hope  will  make  me  only  the  more 
irritable,  and  it  will  be  very  dangerous  for  me 
if  that  hope  oe  deferred.  I  will  amuse  myself 
counting  off  bundles  of  straw  till  you  visit  me 
again,  if  you  do  not  die,  as  I  am  afraid  you 
may,  ere  you  can  free  me."  "Now  then,  I 
must  take  my  leave  of  you,  Antonio,  as  it  ia 
needless  for  me  to  say  anything  farther  at  this 
time."  "For  the  love  of  the  sweet  Virgin 
Mother,  Frederick  Hume,"  said  the  Italian 
boy,  throwing  himself  down  among  his  straw 
with  a  violence  which  made  his  chains  rattle, 
"  speak  comfort  to  my  sister,  who  has  pitched 
her  tent  and  set  down  her  soul's  rest  within  the 
shadow  of  one  unhappy  boy's  heart.  I  shall 
sleep  none  to-night.  Farewell,  sir,  and  think 
upon  me!"  He  nestled  with  his  head  in  the 
straw,  and  Frederick  Hume,  left  the  unhappy 
place. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

The  keeper  of  the  asylum  had  either  been 
convinced  of  Cardo's  lunacy,  or  had  been 
bribed  to  make  his  reports  to  that  effect;  and 
Hume,  when  he  entered  the  poor  boy's  cell, 
had  no  doubt  whatever  that  the  thing  was  as 
represented:  but  now  he  was  fully  convinced 
of  the  contrary,  and  proceeded  without  delay 
loudly  to  challenge  the  wicked  or  foolish  affair. 
Had  the  first  movers  of  it  thought  that  he  was 
to  be  in  the  country  so  soon,  they  would  pro- 
bably have  taken  care  not  to  let  him  visit 
Antonio  privately;  and  they  were  not  a  little 
•tartled  when  Hume  entered  his  strong  re 


monstrance,  and  declared  that  the  boy  had 
been  most  unjustifiably  confined.  As  for  llo- 
melli,  his  ends  were  already  in  a  great  measure 
served,  and  he  cared  not  much  farther  about 
the  thing.  Stewart,  who  was  jealous  of  Hume's 
professional  character  and  his  present  inter- 
ference, made  a  show  as  if  he  would  gainsay 
Frederick's  opinion  to  the  very  utmost.  The 
other  consulting  physicians,  nettled,  no  doubt, 
that  their  grave  wisdom  should  be  impugned 
by  a  stripling,  were  in  a  disposition  sooner  to 
fortify  themselves  in  injustice,  than  to  see  and 
acknowledge  the  truth,  were  it  made  as  plain 
to  them  as  day.  When  they  heard,  however, 
that  Hume  was  determined  to  make  a  repre- 
sentation of  the  case  to  the  magistrates  of  the 
place,  and  to  visit  the  asylum  again  ere  long, 
with  one  or  two  of  the  principal  Edinburgh 
physicians,  they  were  a  little  alarmed;  and 
Stewart,  particularly,  from  his  consciousness 
of  the  truth  of  what  Frederick  had  stated,  de- 
termined that  Cardo  should  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  his  escape,  which  would  save 
himself  the  shame  of  being  publicly  obliged  to 
yield  to  Hume's  interference. 

About  a  week  after  the  above  interview 
betwixt  Antonio  and  our  young  doctor,  Miss 
Pearce,  Signer  Romelli,  and  his  daughter  (for 
the  signer  had  excused  himself  pretty  well  to 
Frederick),  and  two  or  three  more,  were  sitting 
one  evening  in  Sirs.  Mather's  parlour.  The 
candles  had  just  been  lighted.  Immediately 
the  door  opened,  and  admitted  a  young  man, 
bareheaded,  and  in  worn  attire.  As  he  came 
slowly  forward,  he  waved  his  hand  mournfully, 
and  attempted  to  speak,  but  seemed,  from 
emotion,  unable  for  the  task.  He  was  now 
seen  to  be  Antonio  Cardo,  though  he  had 
grown  so  tall  of  late,  and  was  so  very  pale, 
that  he  was  not  so  easily  recognized.  There 
was  a  tear  in  his  eye,  a  slight  dilatation  of  his 
nostril,  and  a  quivering  all  round  his  mouth, 
like  one  whose  honour  has  been  doubted,  and 
who  has  just  come  from  trial  and  danger,  and 
indignant  victory.  Were  an  idiot  to  gain 
reason  and  high  intellect,  and  to  be  seen  walk- 
ing stately  with  wise  men,  who  would  not 
weep  at  the  sublime  sight?  Nor  is  it  without 
awful  interest  that  we  behold  a  man  composed 
and  serene,  after  coming  out  of  a  dark  dream 
of  insanity,  the  fine  light  of  reason  exhaling 
from  the  unsettled  chaos  of  his  eye,  and  a  tear 
there,  the  last  witness  of  the  unaccountable 
struggle.  Some  of  the  young  ladies  who  now 
saw  Antonio  Cardo  lately  recovered,  as  they 
had  heard,  from  such  a  fit,  had  been  talking 
of  him  a  little  before,  and  styling  him  "poor 
unhappy  creature;"  but  no  sooner  did  he 


144 


'BUY  A  BROOM?" 


appear  before  them,  redeemed,  as  they  thought 
him  to  be,  graceful  and  beautifully  pale  as  he 
was,  than  he  gained  the  yearning  respect  of 
all,  and  was  a  prouder  object  to  every  heart 
than  a  bridegroom  from  his  chamber.  He  ad- 
vanced slowly  without  speaking,  and  sat  down 
on  a  sofa  like  a  wayfaring  man  wearied  out 
with  his  journey.  Charlotte  entered  the  room. 
"There  he  is  at  last!"  cried  she,  when  she 
saw  him,  and  throwing  herself  upon  his  neck, 
she  swooned  away,  overcome  by  a  thrill  of  joy. 
Kindly  for  a  while  did  God  hold  her  spirit 
entranced,  that  she  might  not  be  agonized  at 
her  brother's  sudden  and  strange  departure. 
For  Antonio  at  this  moment  observing  Signor 
Romelli,  whom  his  weak  and  dazzled  eyes  had 
not  till  now  seen,  laid  his  sister,  like  an  indif- 
ferent thing,  upon  the  sofa,  started  forward, 
and  pointing  with  his  finger  to  Eomelli,  whis- 
pered deeply,  "  Have  I  found  you,  mine  enemy? 
Take  care  of  that  man,  good  people,  or  my  soul 
shall  tear  him  to  pieces." 

Like  an  unreclaimed  savage,  the  boy  grinded 
his  teeth  as  he  hung  for  a  moment  in  his  threat- 
ening attitude;  but  he  was  seen  to  be  working 
under  some  strong  restraint,  till  all  at  once  he 
rushed  out  of  the  house,  and  was  lost  in  the 
dark  night.  Days,  weeks,  and  months  passed, 
and  still  he  came  not,  nor  had  his  friends  heard 
anything  of  him.  During  the  summer  every 
young  beggar  lad  that  came  to  Greenwells 
Cottage  was  keenly  scrutinized  by  poor  Char- 
lotte Cardo ;  and  every  day  she  went  tc  the  top 
of  a  green  hill  in  the  neighbourhood,  to  look 
for  travellers  along  the  road,  or  coming  over  the 
open  moor.  But  all  her  anxiety  was  in  vain; 
Antonio  came  not,  and  she  began  to  droop. 
In  the  house  she  walked  softly,  with  downcast 
eyes;  she  was  silent  and  kind,  and  very  shy, 
though  every  one  loved  her.  Amidst  gay  com- 
pany she  scarcely  seemed  to  know  wh^re  she 
was,  sitting  motionless  on  her  chair,  or  oblig- 
ingly playing  to  the  dance  without  ever  seem- 
ing to  be  wearied.  To  every  one  that  kindly 
requested  her  to  take  part  in  the  amusement 
she  answered  by  a  shake  of  the  head  and  a  faint 
smile. 

Besides  sorrow  for  her  brother's  unaccoun- 
table absence,  another  passion,  which  no  one 
suspected,  was  beginning  to  prey  upon  the 
heart  of  this  Italian  maiden;  and  no  sooner 
did  she  hear  Frederick  Hume,  about  the  be- 
ginning of  autumn,  propose  to  go  in  a  few 
weeks  to  Paris,  there  to  remain  during  the 
winter,  than  she  declined  so  fast  in  her  health, 
that  in  a  few  days  she  could  scarcely  walk 
about  the  house.  Observing  with  infinite  regret 
her  increasing  feebleness,  Frederick  humanely 


resolved  to  defer  his  journey  till  he  should  sec 
the  issue  of  her  illness;  and,  in  the  meantime, 
he  procured  for  her  the  best  medical  attend- 
ance, determined  to  do  every  thing  which  human 
skill  could  do  for  the  beautiful  alien.  By  the 
advice  of  his  medical  friends,  in  accordance  with 
his  own  view  of  the  case,  he  would  have  sent 
her  to  her  native  Italy;  but  this  she  overruled, 
declaring  she  would  be  buried  in  Mrs.  Mather's 
own  aisle. 

"Can  none  of  you  tell  me,"  said  she  one 
day  to  Frederick,  who  was  alone  with  her  in 
the  room,  as  she  sat  upon  the  sofa,  "what  has 
become  of  my  poor  harper?"  "To  be  sure, 
Charlotte,"  he  answered,  "  I  know  very  well 
where  he  is.  He  is  off  to  Italy  for  a  while, 
and  will  take  care  of  himself,  for  your  sake, 
you  may  be  assured. "  "  You  are  a  kind  gentle- 
man, sir,"  returned  the  maiden;  "but  it  will 
not  do.  Yet  what  boots  such  a  life  as  mine? 
Let  me  die.  You  will  be  happy  with  the  beau- 
tiful Signora  Romelli  when  I  am  gone,  and 
then  she  will  be  assured  that  I  cannot  envy 
her." 

As  she  said  this,  she  covered  her  face  with 
one  hand,  whilst  she  extended  the  other.  It 
was  pale  as  a  lily  bleached  with  rains;  and 
well  could  Frederick  see  that  the  narrow  blue 
rings  of  Death,  her  bridegroom,  were  on  the 
attenuated  fingers.  He  took  the  hand  and 
gently  kissed  it,  bidding  her  take  courage,  and 
saying  that  she  must  take  care  of  her  life  for 
her  brother's  sake.  At  this  the  maiden,  not 
without  a  l.'ttle  irritable  violence,  hastily  with- 
drew her  hand,  and  used  it  to  assist  in  hiding 
the  tears  which  began  to  ourst  through  between 
the  fingers  of  the  other.  Trembling  succeeded, 
and  a  violent  heaving  of  heart,  such  as  threat- 
ened to  rend  her  beautiful  body  to  pieces. 
At  this  delicate  moment  Mrs.  Mather  entered 
the  room,  and  hastened  to  her  assistance. 

One  afternoon,  about  a  week  after  this,  an 
eminent  doctor  from  the  neighbouring  town, 
who  generally  attended  the  maiden,  took 
Frederick  Hume  aside,  and  in  answer  to  his 
inquiries  regarding  her  appearance  that  day, 
said,  "  There  is  but  one  possible  way,  Hume, 
of  saving  that  girl's  life."  "  For  God's  sake, 
name  it,  sir,"  returned  Frederick.  "You  will 
be  surprised,  perhaps  shocked,  Dr.  Hume," 
continued  the  other  physician;  "but  it  is  my 
duty  to  tell  it  to  you.  Well,  then,  that  Italian 
girl  is  dying  of  love  for  you."  "Whom  do 
you  mean,  sir?  Not  Charlotte  Cardo?"  said 
Frederick,  afraid  of  the  conviction  M-hich  had 
flashed  upon  him.  "  I  cannot  be  wrong, 
Frederick,"  replied  the  other;  "Mrs.  Mather 
hinted  the  thing  to  me  some  time  ago.  I  have 


'BUY  A  BEOOM?" 


145 


seen  it  from  the  manner  of  the  girl,  and  her 
emotion  in  your  presence,  compared  with  her 
manner  when  I  visited  her  without  your  being 
with  me.  To-day  she  spoke  of  you  under  a 
slight  degree  of  delirium,  and  when  she  re- 
covered, I  made  her  confess  the  whole  to  me." 
"  You  have  at  least  done  well  to  tell  me,"  said 
Hume,  anxiously.  "  But  what  must  be  done?" 
"  Why,  sir,  as  the  mere  physician  in  this  case, 
my  opinion  generally,  and  without  any  reference 
to  other  circumstances,  is,  that  you  must  for- 
mally make  the  girl  your  bride  this  very  night, 
if  you  would  give  her  a  chance  for  life.  To 
remove  her  preying  suspense,  and  dread  of 
losing  you,  may  calm  her  spirit,  and  lead  to 
ultimate  recovery."  "You  are  an  honest,  but 
severe,  counsellor,"  said  Frederick,  shaking  his 
medical  friend  by  the  hand  with  desperate 
energy;  "but,  for  God's  sake,  sir,  go  not  away 
till  you  tell  me  again  what  must  be  done. 
Were  myself  merely  the  sacrifice,  I  should  not 
hesitate  one  moment — nor  perhaps  think  it  a 
sacrifice.  But,  good  God!  I  stand  pledged  to 
another  lady — to  Miss  Romelli.  And  now, 
how  can  I  act?  Can  there  not  be  at  least  a 
little  delay — say  for  a  week?"  "  I  think  not, 
sir.  No,  assuredly.  But —  '  "Sir?"  de- 
manded Frederick,  eagerly,  interrupting  him; 
"speak  to  me,  sir,  and  propose  something. 
I  have  entire  confidence  in  your  wisdom." 
"I  was  merely  about  to  remark,"  continued 
the  uncompromising  physician,  "that  it  is 
indeed  a  puzzling  case."  "The  worst  of  it 
is,"  said  Hume,  "that  Miss  Romelli  is  at  least 
fifty  miles  hence,  with  her  father,  at  bathing- 
quarters;  and  I  ought,  by  all  means,  to  see 
her  and  be  ruled  by  her  in  this  matter.  Such 
is  certainly  my  duty."  "Much  maybe  said 
on  both  sides,"  briefly  remarked  the  physician, 
who,  most  abstractly  conscientious  in  his  pro- 
fessional character,  would  not  advise  against 
the  means  of  saving  his  patient's  life.  "  I  will 
bear  the  blame,  then,"  said  Hume,  after  a  short 
but  intense  pause.  "  I  cannot  see  that  orphan- 
child  perish  without  my  attempting  to  save 
her.  Miss  Romelli,  I  trust,  will  either  be 
proud  or  magnanimous,  and  so— —the  sooner, 
sir,  the  ceremony  is  performed  the  better." 

The  next  point  was  to  break  the  proposal  to 
Mrs.  Mather;  but  besides  her  wish  to  see  Miss 
Romelli  become  the  wife  of  Frederick,  she  was 
scandalized  at  the  idea  of  his  marrying  a  girl 
whom,  despite  of  her  affection  for  Charlotte, 
she  hesitated  not  at  this  time  to  style  a  wan- 
dering gipsy.  "  Prithee,  madam,"  said  Fre- 
derick, bitterly,  "do  not  so  speak  of  my  wife 
that  is  to  be,  but  go  prepare  for  this  strange 
wedding."  "Never,  never,"  replied  the  old 

VOL.  L 


lady;  "it  is  all  vile  art  in  the  huzzy  to  inveigle 
you  into  a  snare;  1  can  see  that."  "Never- 
theless, the  thing  shall  be  done,"  returned 
Hume,  firmly.  "  And  I  must  tell  you,  madam, 
without  any  reference  to  my  interest  in  her, 
that  you  are  doing  gross  injustice  to  the  poor 
girl,  and  mocking  a  bruised  heart."  "  It  may 
be  so,  sir,"  said  the  lady,  haughtily;  "and, 
moreover,  you  may  do  as  you  list,  but  you 
shall  not  have  my  countenance  at  least." 

Accordingly,  the  old  lady  left  the  cottage 
without  delay,  and  took  refuge  at  the  house  of 
a  friend,  about  six  miles  off,  determined  there 
to  stay  till  bridegroom  and  bride  should  leave 
her  own  dwelling.  Meanwhile,  Frederick  was 
not  disconcerted;  but  with  almost  unnatural 
decision,  summoned  Miss  Pearce,  and  one  or 
two  maids  from  the  neighbouring  village,  to 
prepare  his  bride,  and  attend  her  at  the  strange 
nuptials.  He  was  too  manly  and  magnani- 
mous to  fulfil  the  letter  without  regarding  the 
fine  spirit  of  his  sacrifice,  and,  accordingly,  he 
took  every  precaution  not  to  hurt  or  challenge 
Charlotte's  delicacy  of  feeling;  and,  particu- 
larly, he  strictly  enjoined  every  one  of  the 
above  attendants  not  to  mention  that  Mrs. 
Mather  had  left  the  house,  because  the  thing 
was  utterly  against  her  wish,  but  that  she  was 
kept  by  indisposition  from  being  present  at  the 
ceremony,  which,  on  the  contrary,  it  was  to 
be  stated,  was  all  to  her  mind.  Miss  Pearce, 
when  she  learned  the  flight  of  her  patroness, 
began  to  remonstrate  against  taking  any  part 
in  the  transaction;  but  Hume  drew  her  aside, 
and  spoke  to  her  emphatically  as  follows: — 
"Why,  Miss  Pearce,  what  means  this?  You 
know  you  have  been  a  very  obliging  madam 

for  a  score  of  years  or  so,  d d  obliging 

indeed,  never  wanting  for  a  moment  with  your 
excellent  suppliance,  a  most  discreet  time- 
server.  You  know,  too,  very  well,  what  reason 
I  have  to  dislike  you.  I  shall  soon  control 
Mrs.  Mather.  By  my  soul,  then,  you  shall 
now  do  as  I  bid  you,  or  be  cashiered  for  ever. 
Moreover,  a  word  to  the  wise :  you  are  getting 
very  sharp  in  the  elbows  now,  you  know,  and 
ought  to  be  very  thankful  for  one  chance  more. 
So  you  shall  be  bride's-maid  this  evening,  and 
if  you  enact  the  thing  discreetly,  and  catch 
every  little  prophetic  omen  or  rite  by  the  fore- 
lock, why  then  you  know  your  turn  may  be 
next.  Think  of  the  late  luck  of  your  next 
neighbour,  that  great,  fat,  overwhelming  sexa- 
genarian, like  the  national  debt,  and  do  not 
despair.  I  am  peremptory,  Miss  Pearce,  if 
you  please." 

The  poor  creature  had  not  spirit  to  resist  the 
determined  manner  of  Hume,  which  she  easily 
10 


146 


"BUY  A  BROOM?" 


recognized  through  his  moody  and  (but  that 
he  knew  her  to  be  Miss  Pearce)  insolent  • 
addressv  She  prepared  to  obey  him,  yet 
making,  like  a  stanch  Jesuit,  her  mental 
reservations,  and  storing  up  his  obnoxious 
language  to  be  avenged  should  an  opportunity 
ever  occur. 

And  now  the  small  company  of  bridal  guests 
were  assembled  in  the  lighted  hall.  Frederick 
Hume  stood  by  his  bride  Charlotte  Cardo,  and 
took  her  by  the  trembling  hand.  The  words 
of  mutual  obligation  were  said  by  a  neigh- 
bouring gentleman,  a  justice  of  the  peace, 
because,  owing  to  hasty  preparation,  the  cere- 
mony cauld  not  be  performed  according  to  the 
forms  prescribed  by  the  church,  and  therefore 
could  not  be  engaged  in  by  a  clergyman. 
During  the  brief  repeating  of  the  marriage 
obligations  there  was  death  and  fire  mingled 
in  the  bride's  eye;  her  heart  was  heard  by  all 
present  beating 

"  Even  as  a  madm;m  beats  ujxm  a  drum  ;" 

and  no  sooner  was  the  marriage  fully  declared 
than  she  sprung  forward,  threw  her  arms 
around  the  neck  of  Frederick,  kissed  him  wfth 
wild  energy,  and  exclaimed,  "0  my  own 
husband  !  "  There  was  a  faint  and  fluttering 
sound,  like  the  echo  of  her  passionate  exclama- 
tion, as  she  sunk  back  upon  the  sofa,  before 
which  she  had  stood;  the  lord  of  life  came 
reeling  down  from  the  bright  rotmd  throne  of 
the  eye;  her  eyelid  flickered  for  a  moment; 
her  lips  moved,  'but  nothing  was  heard*  —  yet 
it  was  easily  interpreted  to  be  a  wordless 
blessing  for  her  beloved  one  before  her  by  the 
smile  which  floated  and  lay  upon  her  placid 
upturned  face,  like  sunshine  upon  marble. 
Thus  died  Charlotte  Cardo,  and  Frederick 
Hume  was  a  husband  and  a  widower  in  the 
same  moment  of  time. 


V. 


With  manly  and  decent  composure  Frederick 
ordered  the  preparations  for  the  funeral  of  his 
short-lived  spouse;  and  Mrs.  Mather,  having 
returned  home  truly  affected  at  the  fate  of 
Charlotte,  repentant  for  her  own  last  harsh- 
ness to  the  dying  maid,  and  touched  with  a 
sense  of  Frederick's  nobte  behaviour,  gave 
ample  permission  to  the  youth  to  lay  the  body 
of  his  Italian  wife  in  their  family  aisle,  which 
was  done  accordingly,  three  days  after  jher 
death.  Frederick  laid  her  head  in  the  grave, 
and  continued  in  deep  mounting  for  her. 

According  to  a  decent  formula,  Dr.  Hume 
•would  willingly  enough  have  abstained  for 


some  time  from  treating  with  Signora  Romelli 
about  their  former  mutual  vow;  but,  according 
to  the  spirit  of  his  pledge,  and  his  true  affec- 
tion for  that  lady,  which  had  been  virtually 
unaltered  even  when  he  most  openly  compro- 
mised it,  he  wrote  to  Julia  a  few  days  after  the 
funeral,  stating  the  whole  circumstances,  ask- 
ing her  pardon  if  he  had  wronged  her,  declar- 
ing his  inalienable  affection  for  her,  yet  modestly 
alleging  that  he  had  first  broken  his  vow,  and 
that  he  was  at  her  mercy  whether  or  not  she 
would  still  be  bound  to  him  by  hers.  Such 
was  Frederick's  letter  to  Julia,  which,  had  it 
been  in  time,  she  would  have  kissed  with  tears, 
a  moment  angry,  yet  soon  honouring  her  lover 
the  more  for  the  difficult  and  humane  part 
which  he  had  acted;  but  the  devil  of  petty 
malignity  and  mean  rivalry  had  been  before- 
hand with  him  in  tempting,  from  without,  his 
lady's  heart;  and  ere  his  letter  reached  its  des- 
tination Julia  Romelli  was  lost  to  him  for  ever. 
Dr.  Stewart,  who,  as  already  stated,  was  a  rival 
of  Hume's,  had  been  mean  enough  to  engage 
Miss  Pearce  in  his  interest,  to  do  everything 
she  could  by  remote  hint  and  open  statement 
to  advance  his  suit  with  Signora  Romelli;  and 
we  can  easily  suppose  that  this  intermediate 
party,  froimher  dislike  to  Frederick,  and  her 
jealousy  of' Julia's  favour  with  Mrs.  Mather, 
was  not  idle  in  her  new  office.  On  the  very 
evening  of  Charlotte  Cardo's  marriage  and 
death  she  sought  an  -interview  with  Stewart, 
reminded  him  of  Miss  Romelli's  proud  heart, 
advised  him,  without  losing  a  moment,  to  wait 
ufton  that  lady  and  urge  his  own  respectful 
claims  in  contrast  with  Hume's  ill  usage;  and 
to  make  all  these  particulars  effective,  the 
Pearce  tendered  a  letter,  already  written,  for 
Stewart  to  cam*  with  him  to  Julia,  in  which, 
under  the  character  of  a  friend,  jealous  of  Miss 
Romelli's  honour,  she  stated  the  fact  of  Hume's 
having  married  Charlotte  Cardo  without  men- 
tioning the  qualifying  circumstances,  or  stating 
that  the  rival  bride  was  already  dead.  Stewart 
was  meaa  enough  to  follow  this  crooked  policy 
to  the  utmost.  The  she-devil,  Pearce,  had 
calculated  too  justly  on  poor  Julia's  proud 
heart.  He  pressed  his  suit ;  was  accepted  by 
the  Italian  maid  in  her  fit  ,of  indignation 
against  Frederick;  and  they  were  married  pri- 
vately in  great  haste. 

The  first  symptom  ef  this  unhappy  change 
of  affairs-  which  occurred  to  Hume  was  the 
return  of  the  letter  which  he  had  sent  to  Julia, 
and  which  came  back  to  him  unopened.  About 
a  week  afterwards  he  heard  the  stunning  news 
of  his  own  love's  marriage  with  another,  to  feel 
that  he  was  cut  off  for  ever  from  the  hopes  of 


'BUT  A  EllOOM?" 


147 


his  young  life: — for  he  had  loved  passionately, 
and  with  his  whole  being. 

Days,  weeks  passed  over  him,  and  his  exist- 
ence was  one  continuous  dream  of  thoughts,  by 
turns  fierce  and  gentle,  now  wild  as  the  irftpaled 
breast  of  a  suicide,  now  soft  as  breathings  of 
pity  from  the  little  warm  heart  of  a  young  maid. 
One  while  he  cursed  the  pride  and  cruelty  of 
Julia  (for  he  knew  not  the  part  which  Miss 
Pearce  had  acted),  and  he  made  a  vow  in  his 
soul,  for  his  own  peace  of  mind,  never  again  to 
see  her  in  this  mortal  life.  Then  he  was  dis- 
posed to  curse  the  memory  of  Charlotte  Cardo; 
but  his  heart  was  too  magnanimous  to  let  him 
long  give  way  to  this  feeling.  On  the  contrary, 
to  keep  down  such  thoughts,  and  to  be  strictly 
and  severely  just,  he  got  Mrs.  Mather's  consent 
to  let  a  table-stone  be  placed  in  her  aisle,  with 
this  inscription: — "Charlotte  Cardo,  wife  to 
Dr.  Frederick  Hume." 

One  clay  the  youth  went  alone  to  the  church- 
yard to  see  the  above  tablet  for  the  first  time 
after  its  erection.  As  he  bent  over  it,  filled 
with  a  multitude  of  hurrying  thoughts,  a  burst 
of  solemn  music  rolled  upon  his  ear,  and,  on 
looking  up,  there  was  Antonio  Cardo  within 
the  door  of  the  aisle  playing  upon  an  organ. 
He  was  bareheaded,  and  tears  glittered  in  his 
eyes,  which  were  upturned  with  a  wild  paftios, 
as,  in  accompaniment  with  the  rolling  organ, 
he  chanted  the  following  song  or  dirge: — • 

The  stars  that  shine  o'er  day's  decline  may  tell  the  hour 

of  love, 

The  balmy  whisper  in  the  leaves  the  golden  moon  above; 
But  vain  the  hour  of  softest  power:  the  noon  is  dark  to 

thee, 
My  sister  and  my  faithful  one ! — And  oh  1  her  death  to 

me! 

In  sickness,  aye,  I  cried  for  her — her  beauty  and  her 

kiss: 
For  her  my  soul  was  loath  to  leave  so  fair  a  world  as 

this: 

And  glad  was  I  when  day's  soft  gold  again  upon  me  fell, 
And  the  sweetest  voice  in  all  the  earth  said,  "  Brother, 

art  thou  well?" 

She  led  me  -rtfcere  the  voice  of  streams  the  leafy  forest 

fills: 
She  led  me  where  the  white  sheep  go  o'er  the  shining 

turfy  hills: 
And  whan  the  gloom  upon  me  fell,  O,  she,  the  fairest 

beam, 
Led  forth,  with  silver  leading-strings,  my  BOU!  from 

darksome  dream  1 

Now,  sailing  by,  the  butterfly  may  through  the  lattice 

peer, 
To  tell  the  prime  of  summer-time  the  glory  of  the  year ; 


But  ne'er  for  her:— to  death  her  eyes  have  given  up 

their  trust, 
And  I  cannot  reach  her  in  the.grave  to  clear  them  from 

the  dust. 

But  in  the  skies  her  penrly  eyes  the  Mother  maid  hatk 

kiss'd, 
And  she  hath  dipp'd  her  sainted  foot  in  the  sunshine  of 

the  bless'd. 
Eternal  peace  her  ashes  keep  who  loved  me  through  tlve 

past ! 
And  may  good  Christ  my  spirit  take  to  be  with  hers  at 

last! 

With  a  softened  heart  Frederick  listened  to 
the  strain;  but  after  it  had  ceased,  arid  An- 
tonio had  kissed  his  sister's  name  upon  the 
stone,  he  could  not  refrain,  in  an  alternation 
of  sterner  feeling,  from  saying,  "By  Heaven! 
most  unhappy  wanderer,  the  thing  is  all  your 
own  doing  your  folly  hath  ruined  us  all." 

The  Italian  answered  not,  save  by  throwing, 
himself  down  on  the  ground  and  kissing  Fre- 
derick's feet. 

"  Rise  up,  sir,"  said  Hume,  angrily;  "  I  like 
not  your  savage  philosophy:  I  like  nothing 
beyond  common  sense  and  feeling.  As  for 
yourself,  I  know  you  not,  sir:  I  do  not  know 
what  character  you  are  of,  or  anything  about 
your  family."  "  By  ?Mie  Holy  Mother!  you 
shall  soon  know  me  then,"  said  the  boy, 
springing  proudly  up.  "  Promise  to  meet  me 
here  on  Saturday  night  at  twelve  o'clock,  and 
you  shall  see  me  then  no  longer  the  weak  boy 
that  you  have  spurned,  but  one  that  can  be 
strong  and  do  justice.  Do  you  promise  to 
meet  me?"  "How  am  I  interested  in  your 
scheme  of  j  ustice  ? "  demanded  Frederick.  ' '  You 
do  not  fear  me,  sir?"  asked  the  Italian  in  return. 
"Surely  the  man  that  so  honoured  Charlotte 
Cardo  as  you  have  done  need  not  fear  me." 
"Why,  sir,"  said  Frederick,  "to  tell  you  a 
circumstance  which  you  have  no  right  to  know, 
in  these  late  days  I  do  not  hold  my  life  of  more 
value  than  a  box  of  grasshoppers."  "  You  can 
have  no  scruple  then  to  meet  me,"  said  Cardo-. 
"And  you  may  have  some  wish  to  hear  me 
explain  a  few  circumstances  relative  to  our 
family,  my  own  character,  and  the  cause  of 
my  late  absence.  You  shall  also  learn  some- 
thing about  Signor  Romelli.  Have  I  your 
sure  promise  to  meet  me  then  at  this  place?" 
"  I  eare  not  though  I  do,"  answered  Hume, 
"since  I  am  weary  of  everything  common 
under  the  sun,  and  especially  since  it  is  a  very 
pretty  hour  for  a  man  to  speculate  a  little  in." 
"  You  are  too  careless  by  half  for  my  purpose," 
said  the  Italian.  "  Faith,  not  so," returned  Fre* 
derick.  "Nay,  my  good  friend,  I  will  on  mj 


348 


"BUY   A  BROOM?" 


knees  on  this  stone  swear  to  meet  you.  Well, 
did  you  say  on  Saturday?"  "  This  is  mere 
moody  trifling  all,  Dr.  Hume;  but  no  matter, 
I  will  ere  then  give  you  a  memento  to  mind 
Saturday  night :  hour — twelve  o'clock. "  "  You 
go  home  with  me  in  the  interim,  I  presume?" 
said  Frederick.  "  You  have  played  the  truant 
from  school  too  long."  "Farewell,  sir,  and 
remember  your  promise,"  answered  Antonio. 
"I  do  not  go  with  you  at  present."  He  ac- 
cordingly hasted  away  from  Frederick,  without 
answering  his  farther  inquiries. 

On  the  forenoon  of  the  following  Saturday 
Hume  received  a  note  from  Cardo  reminding 
him  of  his  engagement  at  twelve  o'clock  that 
night,  which,  to  do  Frederick  justice,  he  had 
not  forgotten,  and  which  he  had  resolved  to 
fulfil,  chiefly  from  the  excellent  motive  of 
seeing  the  poor  Italian  lad  again,  and  offering 
to  put  him  in  some  other  respectable  situation 
in  life  if  he  did  not  choose  farther  to  pursue 
his  classical  studies.  A  considerable  while 
before  the  appointed  hour  our  doctor  took  the 
way  to  the  churchyard,  which  was  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  Mrs.  Mather's  house. 
The  belated  moon  was  rising  in  the  east,  in  an 
inflamed  sphere,  as  of  spilt  wine  and  blood; 
and  the  light  of  her  red-barred  face  tinged  the 
dark  tops  of  the  yews,  which  stood  bristling 
like  angry  feathers  around  the  churchyard,  at 
the  gate  of  which  Hume  was  now  arrived. 
The  owl  came  sailing  by  his  head  on  muffled 
wing,  and  flew  about  musing  over  the  graves. 
The  next  minute  Frederick  was  startled  at 
hearing  the  reports  of  two  pistols,  one  a  little 
after  the  other;  and  making  his  way  towards 
the  quarter  whence  the  sounds  had  come,  he 
was  led  to  his  own  aisle.  On  looking  through 
its  grated  door, — Heavens  of  Mercy  !  what  saw 
he  within?  There  was  Signor  Eomelli  on 
his  knees  before  the  tombstone,  and  Antonio 
Cardo  holding  him  fast  by  the  neck.  To  the 
surprise  of  Hume,  there  seemed  to  be  some  new 
inscription  on  the  stone.  To  this,  Cardo, 
whilst  he  held  Romelli  with  one  hand,  was 
pointing  with  the  other;  and  at  the  same  time  a 
dark  lantern  had  been  so  placed  upon  the  tablet, 
that  its  light  fell  directly  upon  the  letters  of 
the  inscription. 

"Rtead  aloud,  sir,  for  the  behoof  of  all,  or 
you  die  this  moment,"  cried  Cardo  sternly,  and 
flourishing  a  sort  of  dagger-knife  above  the 
bare  head  of  his  prostrate  countryman.  Ro- 
melli stared  upon  the  writing,  but  sat  silent. 
"You  cannot  see  them  plainly,  perhaps,"  said 
the  vindictive  Antonio.  "There  is  dust  on 
the  stone  and  in  the  letters,  but  we  shall  cleanse 
them  for  you."  So  saying,  he  drew  a  white 


napkin  from  his  pocket,  dipped  it  in  the  blood 
that  was  flowing  profusely  from  Romelli'a 
throat,  and  wiped  with  it  the  stone.  ' '  Read ! " 
was  again  the  stern  mandate.  Romelli  looked 
ghastly,  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  stone, 
but  said  nothing.  And  there  was  a  dogged 
determination  in  his  look,  which  told  that  he 
would  die  like  a  fox,  without  murmur  or  word. 
"I  will  read  for  you,  then,"  said  Cardo: — "  In 
memory  of  Hugo  Marli,  who  perished  in  the 
South  Seas." — "Now,  tell  me,  red-handed 
hell-fiend,  how  perished  the  youth?"  A  very 
slight  groan,  and  a  harder  breathing,  was  all 
the  answer  from  the  prostrate  Italian.  "Well 
then,  I  am  Antonio  Marli, — the  last  of  my 
race — the  brother  of  thy  victim, — his  avenger, 
— thy — prove  the  title  there — and  find  hell." 
The  last  vengeful  words  gurgled  in  his  throat; 
but  his  hand  was  nothing  paralyzed,  for,  lifting 
high  the  dagger,  he  struck  it,  crashing  and 
glutting  itself,  down  through  the  skull  and 
brains  of  the  prostrate  wretch,  to  the  very  hilt. 
The  handle  of  the  dagger,  which  was  shaped 
like  a  cross,  gave  a  grotesque  tufted  appearance 
to  the  head,  and  consorted  well  with  the  horrid 
expression  of  the  features,  which  were  first 
gathered  up  into  one  welked  knot  of  ugly 
writhen  delirium,  and  then  slowly  fell  back 
into  their  proper  places,  and  were  gradually 
settled  into  the  rigidity  of  death.  The  body 
inclined  forward  against  the  stone,  upon  the 
edge  of  which  stuck  the  chin,  unnaturally 
raised;  and  the  face,  half  lighted  by  the  lamp, 
and  adorned  by  the  handle-cross  towering  above 
it,  looked  over  the  tablet  towards  the  door, — 
a  ghastly  picture. 

Antonio  Marli  (let  him  now  wear  the  name, 
thus  horribly  authenticated),  with  a  red  smile, 
as  if  his  countenance  shone  from  the  mouth  of 
a  furnace,  turned  to  Hume,  who,  loudly  de- 
precating the  above  violence,  had  made  desperate 
efforts  at  the  same  time  to  break  into  the  aisle, 
and  thus  grimly  spoke  to  him:  "So,  thou  art 
there,  thou  glorious  faithful  one!  Thou  shalt 
live  in  the  kingdom-to-come  with  the  Marlis. 
Come  in,  bird,  into  the  house,"  continued  he, 
curving  his  fore-finger,  and  beckoning  to 
Frederick  with  it;  "advance  and  join  the 
committee."  A  change  came  over  his  face  in 
a  moment:  he  unlocked  the  door;  threw  it  open; 
dragged  out  the  body  of  Romelli  with  awful 
violence;  then  turning  to  Hume,  tried  to  speak, 
but  could  not,  from  violent  emotion.  He  con- 
tinued for  a  minute  merely  pointing  to  the 
body,  but  at  length  he  said,  "So,  there  it  is 
out:  I  would  not  have  its  blood  mingle  with 
my  sister's  ashes." 

"Most  murderous  wretch,"  cried  Frederick, 


'BUY   A  BROOM?" 


149 


grappling  with  him;  "how  didst  thou  dare  call 
me  to  witness  this?"  "Sir,  I  thought  your 
good  opinion  of  some  value,  and  I  called  you 
to  see  me  approve  myself  a  man  of  justice." 
"A  wild  beast  thou!  say  a  fiend  rather;  but 
thou  shalt  answer  for  it."  "Ha!"  cried 
Marli,  with  desperate  energy,  casting  himself 
free  from  Hume's  hold;  "hear  me,  sir,  now 
my  brother :  Go,  weep  for  the  little  wren  that 
dies  in  a  tussle  with  the  bltfe  cuckoo,  but  give 
not  your  sympathy  to  that  carrion,  for  he  was 
a  wretch,  whose  heart-strings  might,  unscathed, 
have  tied  up  the  forked  bundles  of  lightning,  so 
callous  were  they,  so  wicked,  so  callous.  For 
your  wife's  sake,  my  sister,  do  not.  Moreover, 
you  must  leave  this  country  instantly;  and  for 
your  kindness  to  my  sister  I  shall  go  with  you 
wherever  you  go,  and  be  your  slave  till  death, 
because  in  that  I  shall  be  honouring  her." 
"  A  discreet  travelling  companion,  forsooth  ! " 
returned  Hume.  "  Hark  ye,  sir:  like  fire  and 
water  I  can  be  a  good  servant ;  but  my  mastery, 
if  your  negative  to  my  proposal  put  it  upon 
me,  may  be  equally  dangerous."  "  Granted — 
in  the  matters  of  Italian  assassination,"  said 
Frederick.  "  But  suppose,  sir,  that  this  very 
moment  I  dispute  your  mastery.  Suppose 
I  tell  you  that  even  now  my  eye  is  upon  you, 
and  that  I  do  not  mean  to  let  you  leave  the 
churchyard  without  a  desperate  effort  on  my 
part  to  secure  your  person."  "  I  shall  not  stay 
at  present,"  said  Cardo,  "to  show  you  how 
easily  I  can  defy  you,  armed  as  I  am.  Let  us 
come  to  the  point.  You  love  Signora  Romelli, 
and  she  loves  you.  Well:  but  you  shall  never 
marry  her  for  her  vile  father's  sake.  She  shall 
never  sit  a  bride  on  the  throne  of  your  heart, 
which  my  sister  Charlotte  could  not  gain. 
Nay,  she  shall  never  wear  for  you  the  comely 
garment  of  marriage  which  my  sister  Charlotte 
gained.  She  shall  never  be  happy  as  a  wife 
where  my  sister  Charlotte  could  not  be  happy 
as  a  wife.  I  Avill  flee  this  instant,  and  you  will 
be  suspected  of  Romelli's  murder.  I  have  put 
things  in  such  a  train  that  suspicion  must 
naturally  fall  upon  you.  No  one,  save  your- 
self, and  another  whom  I  can  trust,  has  seen 
me  in  this  visit  to  your  neighbourhood.  The 
deed  has  been  done  with  your  own  pistol  and 
dagger,  with  which,  besides  the  key  to  open 
the  aisle  door,  my  knowledge  of  Mrs.  Mather's 
premises  enabled  me  secretly  to  provide  myself 
a  few  nights  ago.  If  you  think  it  could  serve 
you  aught  in  the  court  of  justice  to  produce 
my  card  of  to-day  inviting  you  hither,  look  at 
it  again,  and  see  that  it  is  not  signed.  More- 
over, on  a  more  careful  glance,  you  will  find  it 
»  fair  imitation  of  your  own  handwriting,  so 


that  it  would  instantly  be  declared  an  ex  post 
facto  forgery — a  poorly-conceived  contrivance. 
That  dead  dog  was  honoured  likewise  with  a 
note  of  invitation,  but  I  took  care  to  put  such 
dangerous  hints  in  it  that  he  would  not  fail 
to  burn  it  as  soon  as  read.  Moreover,  on  your 
way  hither,  you  met  two  villagers,  who,  by  a 
shrewd  contrivance  of  mine,  which  it  is  needless 
at  present  to  explain,  were  drawn  to  the  road, 
notwithstanding  the  late  hour,  and  who  could 
not  fail  to  recognize  you,  though  they  might 
not  speak.  Now,  sir,  do  you  see  how  you  are 
beleaguered?  You  can  hardly  escape  a  con- 
demning verdict ;  and  even  were  it  '  Not 
proven,'  still  the  lurking  suspicion  against 
you,  which  such  a  niggardly  acquittal  implies, 
would  for  ever  prevent  the  fine-souled  Julia 
Romell'  from  becoming  your  wife.  Now  for 
your  alternative  of  choice: — Shall  I  leave  you 
— and  will  you  stay — to  be  confounded  in  this 
country?  or  will  you  not  rather  flee  with  me 
instantly,  where  both  of  us  shall  be  safe,  and 
where,  because  you  so  honoured  and  tried  to 
save  the  twin-sister  of  my  being,  my  beloved 
one,  I  shall  tame  my  safety,  and  my  pride, 
and  my  powers,  to  be  with  you  day  and  night 
as  your  companion  and  friend?  Remember, 
either  alternative  will  equally  well  serve  my 
ends."  "  I  have  listened  to  you  well,  you  must 
allow,"  said  Hume;  "and  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  your  ingenuity  and  finesse  are 
admirable;  but  what  a  pity  it  is  that  they 
should  all  go  for  nothing!  To  show  you,  sir, 
what  an  overweening  fool  you  are,  I  will  con- 
strain myself  to  tell  you  that  Julia  Romelli  is 
already  married  to  Dr.  Stewart,  in  consequence 
of  my  choosing  a  bride  elsewhere.  Now,  sir, 
seeing  what  my  connection  with  your  family 
has  already  gained  for  me,  can  you  still  urge 
it  upon  me,  as  a  very  important  acquisition, 
to  secure  your  devoted  and  worshipful  attend- 
ance? Faugh!  your  hand  smells  rankly,  and 
I  will  not  taste  that  bread  which  you  have 
touched. " 

At  this  announcement  of  Miss  Romelli's 
marriage  Marli  gave  a  sort  of  involuntary 
scream.  With  trembling  earnestness  he  then 
drew  forth  his  bloody  handkerchief,  tied  one 
end  round  his  neck,  and  proffered  the  other  to 
Dr.  Hume,  with  the  following  words:  "Is  it 
so,  sir?  is  Julia  lost  to  you?  I  knew  not  of 
this:  and  now  I  do  not  rejoice.  But  take  the 
napkin,  sir,  and  lead  me  away  to  justice:  take 
it,  sir,  if  you  wish  any  triumph  over  our  family. 
By  the  souls  of  all  my  race,  I  shall  follow  you 
quietly  as  a  lamb,  for  you  have  suffered  too 
much  already  from  the  Marlis.  Not  one  hair 
of  your  noble  head  shall  for  this  murder  come 


150 


"BUY  A  BROOM?" 


into  danger.  Not  one  suspicion  shall  attach 
to  your  cloudless  name.  Had  the  law  seized 
you,  by  my  soul's  being  I  would  not  have  let 
you  die,  though  I  wished  you  never  to  get 
Julia  Romelli  for  your  wife.  As  it  now  is> 
you  shall  not  for  a  moment  be  impeached. 
Lead  mo  away." 

Hume  was  puzzled  what  step  now  to  take. 
He  could  have  no  wish  to  see  Marli  perish  on 
the  scaffold,  even  though  he  was  a  murderer; 
besides,  that  he  would  himself  indirectly  share 
the  ignominy,  from  having  been  so  allied  to 
the  family.  But  then,  on  the  other  hand, 
though  life  might  now  be  of  little  value  to  him, 
he  would  not  have  his  honour  called  in  ques- 
tion, nor  his  name  linked  with  the  suspicions 
of  his  having  had  anything  to  do  with  such  a 
vile  deed  of  murder,  which  might  assuredly 
happen  to  him  were  the  real  murderer  to  escape. 
He  was,  besides,  though  of  a  very  ardent  tem- 
perament, a  man  of  a  wise  and  well-constituted 
heart,  and  could  not  but  think  that  Marli 
should  be  directly  responsible  to  the  laws  of  a 
wise  country  for  his.  outrageous  act.  In  some- 
thing like  a  compromise  betwixt  these  feelings, 
he  said,  "I  shall  endeavour,  sir,  to  keep  the 
blame  from  myself,  and  fix  it  upon  the  proper 
culprit: — Should  you  make  your  escape,  I  shall 
defend  myself  as  well  as  possible." 

"So  the  die  is  cast  against  me,"  said  Marli, 
who,  notwithstanding  the  sincere  spirit  of  his 
surrender,  had  perhaps  clung  to  the  hope,  that 
Hume  might  yet  be  disposed  to  save  him,  by 
leaving  the  country  with  him  for  ever.  "But 
I  shall  abide  it — take  me  now  in  tow,  for  I 
am  impatient  to  grapple  with  my  fate. " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Frederick,  refusing  the 
handkerchief,  caring  not  for  the  outrageous 
effect  of  which  the  wild  spirit  of  Marli  seemed 
studious,  in  proposing  the  use  of  this  bloody 
leading-string.  He  went  close,  however,  by 
the  side  of  the  Italian,  determined  now  to  lay 
hold  on  him  should  he  offer  to  escape.  This, 
however,  Antonio  did  not  attempt;  but,  going 
quietly  with  Hume  to  the  village,  he  himself 
roused  the  constables,  stated  to  them  his  crime, 
and  put  himself  under  their  care,  to  convey 
him  to  the  jail  of  the  neighbouring  town,  which 
was  done  without  delay. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Marli  was  found  guilty  of  Romelli's  murder; 
and  condemned  to  be  executed  in  the  church- 
yard where  the  murder  was  committed — a 
place  of  execution  certainly  new  and  remark- 
able. Frederick  Hume,  according  to  a  solemn 
promise  which  he  had  made  to  Marli  when 


one  day  he  visited  him  in  jail  before  his  trial, 
again  waited  on  the  prisoner  in  his  cell  a  few- 
days  before  the  appointed  time  of  execution. 
The  Italian  boy  was  sitting  on  his  low  pallet- 
bed,  apparently  in  deep  abstraction,  and  he 
sat  for  a  minute  after  Frederick  entered.  His 
face  was  calm  and  clearly  pale,  as  if  it  had 
come  out  of  the  refiner's  furnace;  but  his  dark 
hair  was  raised  a  little  above  one  of  his  temples, 
as  if  disordered  by  the  wind  ;  and  there  was  an 
awful  shadow  and  a  trouble  in  the  inner  rooms 
of  his  eye.  So  soon  as  Hume  named  him,  he 
arose,  and,  advancing,  kissed  his  visitor  on  the 
cheek,  exclaiming  earnestly,  "My  brother! 
My  brother!" 

"Well,  then,  my  poor  Antonio  Marli,"  said 
Hume,  much  moved,  "I  trust  you  repent  of 
your  crime?" 

"Why?  and  wherefore?"  answered  the  pri- 
soner, with  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "But 
you  shall  hear  me :  When  you  were  last  in  the 
jail  with  me  I  was  not  in  the  vein  for  explana- 
tions, but  now  you  shall  hear  and  judge  of 
Komelli's  deserts.  I  would  make  you  a  prince, 
sir,  if  I  could,  but  I  have  no  other  way  of  giving 
you  honour,  than  by  unfolding  myself  a  little 
to  you,  which  I  would  do  were  the  confession 
to  show  my  heart  one  molten  hell. — My  father, 
who,  as  you  have  already  heard,  was  a  clergy- 
man in  the  north  of  Italy,  was  one  stormy 
night  returning  home  through  a  small  village, 
about  a  mile  from  our  house,  when  he  heard  a 
poor  sailor  begging  at  a  door  for  a  lodging 
during  the  night,  which  was  refused  him. 
My  good  old  father,  remembering  that  he  him- 
self had  a  son  a  sailor,  who  might  come  to 
equal  want,  brought  home  with  him  the  re- 
jected seaman,  gave  him  food  and  dry  raiment, 
and  made  him  sit  with  us  by  the  parlour  fire. 
The  man  was  of  a  talkative  disposition,  and 
being,  moreover,  cheered  by  the  wine  which 
was  plentifully  given  him,  began  voluntarily 
to  tell  us  of  his  having  been  lately  shipwrecked. 
'And  how  could  it  be  otherwise?'  continued 
the  mariner;  'how  could  that  ship  thrive? 
You  will  hear  why  she  could  not ;  for  I  know 
the  whole  story.  Well,  before  sailing  from 
Genoa,  on  our  last  voyage,  our  captain,  who 
was  a  widower,  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  young 
lady.  Now,  it  so  happened,  that  his  mate,  a 
nice  young  chap,  liked  the  same  damsel ;  and 
she,  in  return,  preferred  him  to  the  sulky 
captain,  who,  in  consequence,  was  mightily 
huffed,  and  took  every  opportunity,  after  we 
had  sailed  from  port,  of  venting  his  spleen 
against  his  rival.  One  day,  being  becalmed  in 
the  South  Seas,  near  a  beautiful  green  island 
abounding  in  wild  game,  the  captain  with  a 


"BUY  A   BROOM?" 


151 


•mall  party  went  on  shore  to  have  some  sport 
in  shooting  kangaroos.  To  the  surprise  of 
every  one  the  young  mate  was  allowed  to  go 
with  us,  and  glad  he  was,  for  he  was  a  lad  of 
fine  mettle  and  delighted  in  all  sorts  of  amuse- 
ment. But  no  sooner  had  we  landed  than  the 
captain  turned  to  him  and  said,  peremptorily, 
'Now,  sir,  j'ou  must  watch  the  boat  till  we 
return. '  Poor  fellow,  he  knew  his  duty,  though 
he  felt  the  mean  revenge,  and  folding  his  arms, 
he  turned  quickly  round  with  his  face  from  us, 
which  was  burning  with  anger,  and  began  to 
hum  a  tune.  After  we  had  pursued  our  sport 
for  some  hours  in  the  woods,  we  returned  to  the 
boat,  and  were  surprised  to  find  that  the  mate 
was  not  beside  it.  We  saw  him,  however,  about 
a  hundred  yards  off  (for  he  had  probably  been 
allured  from  his  charge  by  seeing  some  game 
not  far  off),  hasting  towards  us.  The  captain, 
trembling  with  malignant  eagerness,  ordered 
us  all  into  the  boat  in  a  moment,  and  made  us 
pull  away  as  fast  as  possible  from  the  poor 
young  fellow,  who,  loudly  demanding  not  to 
be  left  in  such  a  wild  place,  dashed  into  the 
sea  and  swam  after  us.  Be  sure  all  of  us  used 
our  oars  with  as  little  effect  as  possible  to  let 
him  make  his  leeway.  This  he  soon  did  and  took 
hold  of  the  edge  of  the  boat ;  when  the  cruel 
captain  drew  his  hanger  and  cut  through 
his  fingers,  leaving  him  again  to  fall  back  into 
the  sea.  'You  disobeyed  my  orders,  sir,  in  not 
staying  beside  the  boat,'  cried  the  heartless 
savage,  whom  every  soul  of  us  would  gladly  have 
tossed  overboard,  though  the  instinct  of  disci- 
pline kept  us  quiet.  As  for  the  poor  mate,  he 
cast  a  bitter  and  reproachful  glance  at  the 
boat,  folded  his  arms,  and  diving  down  into 
the  sea,  was  never  more  seen.  How  could  the 
ship,  that  bore  us  with  the  monster,  be  blessed 
after  such  doings  ?  She  was  beat  to  pieces  on 
the  coast  of  Sicily,  and  the  captain  and  I  alone 
escaped.  He  used  me  very  scurvily  thereafter, 
and.  I  ani  not  ashamed  to  tell  his  misdeeds. 
-But  it  was  a  pity  for  the  good  ship,  the  Arrow.' 
'0,  God!  hold  fast  my  head!'  exclaimed  my 
father,  on  hearing  the  name  of  the  vessel — 
'  If — if — but  tell  me  the  captain's  name.' 
'Romelli.'  'And  the  mate's?'  'Hugo  Marl i; 
— a  blythe  sailor!'  'My  Hugo! — my  own 
boy!'  cried  my  father;  and  the  old  man's  head 
sunk  down  upon  his  breast.  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  wild,  strange  manner  in  which  our 
sailor-guest  at  this  caught  hold  of  the  liquor 
that  was  standing  on  the  table,  drunk  it  all 
out  of  the  bottle,  and  then  fled  from  the  house, 
leaving  me  alone,  a  little  boy,  to  raise  and 
comfort  my  father's  heart.  In  a  few  days  the 
old  man  died  of  a  broken  heart,  and  I  was 


left  alone  with  my  twin  sister  Charlotte.  Day 
and  night  I  thought  of  Hugo,  the  gay  and 
gallant  sailor  boy  that  all  the  maids  of  Italy 
loved,  the  pride  and  stay  of  my  father's  heart, 
who  brought  presents  for  Charlotte  from  far 
lands,  and  taught  me  to  fish  for  minnows  in 
the  brook,  and  to  pipe  upon  the  jointed  stems 
of  the  green  wheat: — And  all  this  was  at  an 
end  for  ever;  and  my  father's  heart  was  braken. 
Therefore  the  desire  of  revenge  grew  up  and 
widened  with  my  soul  from  day  to  day.  I 
found  a  medium  through  which  I  traced  all 
Romelli's  movements,  and  when  I  learned  dis- 
tinctly that  he  was  a  prisoner  in  this  country, 
I  determined  to  pay  him  a  visit.  My  father 
had  left  a  small  sum  of  money,  but  now  it  was 
nearly  expended,  having  supported  Charlotte 
and  myself  scarcely  a  year  in  the  house  of  our 
maternal  uncle,  and  we  were  likely  soon  to  be 
entirely  dependent  upon  him.  On  expressing 
my  determination  to  go  to  England  with  my 
sister,  I  saw  that  he  was  very  willing  to  get 
quit  of  us :  and  the  better  to  insure  our  removal, 
he  bought  me  a  harp  and  paid  our  passage  to 
this  country." 

"Allow  me  to  ask,"  interrupted  Hume — 
"Did  Charlotte  know  this  wild  purpose  of 
yours?" 

"No;  she  was  staying  with  our  aunt  for  a 
while  when  the  above  scene  with  the  sailor 
took  place,  and  my  father  was  dead  ere  she 
knew  of  his  illness.  The  thoughts  of  revenge 
which  had  already  occurred  to  me  made  me 
conceal  the  true  cause  of  my  father's  death :  or, 
perhaps,  to  speak  more  strictly,  although  it 
was  well  known  that  his  having  heard  of  his  son 
Hugo's  death  struck  the  old  man  to  the  grave, 
yet  I  took  care  not  to  reveal  through  what  chan- 
nel the  news  had  come,  or  the  cruel  mode  of  my 
brother's  death.  Had  Charlotte  known  what 
was  within  me,  she  would  have  tried  inces- 
santly to  break  my  purpose;  but  she  could  not 
possibly  know  it,  and  as  my  will  was  her  law 
in  indifferent  matters,  she  readily  followed  me 
to  this  country.  No  sooner  had  we  landed 
than  I  made  her  vow  never  to  reveal  our  true 
name  or  distinct  place  of  abode  till  I  gave  her 
leave:  and,  in  the  meantime,  we  assumed  the 
name  of  Cardo.  After  wandering  about  in 
England  till  we  learned  to  speak  the  language 
fluently,  which  we  attained  the  more  easily 
that  our  father  had  taught  it  to  us  gramma- 
tically, I  led  the  way  to  Scotland,  gradually 
drawing  near  my  victim,  whose  place  of  stay 
I  had  taken  care  to  ascertain  in  Italy,  through 
the  same  means  by  which  I  had  hitherto 
watched  his  movements.  To  make  my  sound- 
ings, I  got  into  Romelli's  house  under  a  feigned 


152 


'BUY  A  BROOM?" 


sickness.  When  you  saw  me  first,  I  had  in 
truth  no  complaint  save  that  the  nearness  of 
jny  victim  and  purpose  had  made  my  heart  so 
deeply  palpitate,  that  a  degree  of  irritable 
fever  had  come  over  me.  The  fair  Julia  was 
too  kind  and  tender:  I  fell  madly  in  love  with 
her; — I  almost  forgot  my  stern  duty  of  revenge. 
You  cannot  guess  the  choking  struggles  between 
my  two  master  passions.  Yielding  so  far  to 
the  former,  I  compromised  my  pride  in  another 
point,  and  consented  to  be  a  dependant  of 
Mrs.  Mather's.  By  Heaven!  I  was  not  born 
with  a  soul  to  wait  at  palace  doors — I  would 
have  rejoiced,  under  other  circumstances,  to  live 
with  my  sister,  f.ee  as  the  pretty  little  finches 
that  hunt  the  bearded  seeds  of  autumn ;  but 
love  and  revenge,  mingled  or  separately,  im- 
posed it  upon  me  to  accede  to  your  charity  and 
Mrs.  Mather's,  that  I  might  be  near  the  two 
Romellis.  In  her  playful  mood,  perhaps,  Julia 
one  evening  prophesied  that  I  should  become  a 
murderer.  You  cannot  conceive  the  impression 
which  this  made  upon  me.  I  had  begun  to  flag 
in  my  first  great  purpose,  but  now  again  I 
thought  myself  decreed  to  be  an  avenger;  and  to 
avoid  stabbing  Romelli  that  very  night  in  your 
house,  I  had  to  keep  myself  literally  away 
from  him.  Xow,  judge  me,  my  friend.  Was  < 
it  not  by  him  that  I  was  shut  up  in  a  mad- 
house? Yet  for  your  sake,  and  Mrs.  Mather's, 
and  Charlotte's,  and  Julia's,  and  perhaps  mine 
own  (for  I  have  been  too  weak),  again  I  re- 
frained from  slaying  him  in  your  house — nay, 
I  left  the  place  and  neighbourhood  altogether, 
and  went  to  London.  I  engaged  to  sing  and 
play  in  an  opera-house,  and  made  enough  of 
money.  My  heart  again  grew  up  dangerous 
and  revengeful.  I  returned  to  Scotland  to  pay 
Mrs.  Mather  for  having  kept  us,  to  send  Char- 
lotte to  a  seaport  town,  whence  a  ship  was  to 
sail  for  the  Continent  on  a  given  day,  then  to 
call  Romelli  to  account,  and  thereafter  to  join 
my  sister  a  few  hours  before  the  vessel  sailed. 
On  my  arrival  again  in  your  neighbourhood  to 
make  preliminary  inquiries,  I  called  at  the 
house  of  a  young  woman,  who  was  Mrs.  Mather's 
servant  when  I  first  came  to  the  cottage;  but 
•who,  about  a  year  afterwards,  went  home  to 
take  care  of  her  mother,  an  old  blind  woman. 
So,  then,  Charlotte  was  dead!  My  sister 
Charlotte! — My  young  Charlotte  Marli! — and 
all  in  my  most  damnable  absence!  I  heard  it 
all,  and  your  own  noble  generosity :  but  nothing 
of  Julia's  marriage  with  Stewart,  which  my 
informant,  in  her  remote  dwelling,  had  doubt- 
less not  yet  heard.  All  this  might  change  my 
line  of  politics.  In  the  first  place,  I  imposed 
Becrecy  as  to  my  arrival  on  my  young  hostess, 


who  readily  promised  to  observe  it,  in  virtue  of 
having  loved  me  for  my  music.  I  had  now  to 
concert  not  only  how  best  to  strike  Romelli, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  how  to  prevent  for  ever 
your  marriage  with  Julia.  You  know  my 
double  scheme  in  one.  The  brother  of  my 
hostess  had,  in  former  years,  been  an  organist, 
and  one  day  I  took  his  instrument,  which  the 
affectionate  lass  had  carefully  kept  for  his  sake, 
and  went  to  the  remote  churchyard  to  play  a 
dirge  over  Charlotte's  grave.  You  were  there, 
and  I  found  it  an  excellent  opportunity  of  for- 
warding my  scheme,  by  making  you  promise 
to  meet  me  afterwards  in  the  aisle;  which  you 
did,  when  Signor  Romelli  happened  to  be 
there.  Ha!  ha!  how  came  he  there,  the  foolish 
man?  Before  naming  to  you  the  precise  night 
of  our  threefold  meeting,  I  had  been  prudent 
enough  to  find  out  that  the  excellent  signor 
had  just  come  home  from  some  jaunt,  and  in 
all  probability  would  not  again,  for  at  least  a 
few  days,  leave  his  house.  To  make  sure, 
however,  I  instantly  forwarded  to  him  my 
letter  of  invitation.  How  expressed?  how 
signed?  I  remember  well  (for  nothing  of  that 
dreadful  night  will  easily  pass  from  my  mind) 
the  sailor's  name  whose  story  broke  my  father's 
heart.  So,  under  his  name,  I  scrawled  a  letter 
to  Romelli,  stating,  that  if  the  signor  would 
know  the  immediate  danger  in  which  he  stood 
in  consequence  of  certain  things  which  once 
happened  in  a  boat  in  the  South  Seas,  wlien  he 
was  captain  of  the  Arrow,  and  if  he  would  not 
have  these  points  now  brought  publicly  to  light, 
he  must  meet  the  writer  alone,  at  the  door  of 
the  given  aisle,  on  Saturday  night,  precisely  at 
eleven  o'clock.  I  was  much  afraid  that  he 
would  guess  the  true  writer  of  the  letter,  and 
so  would  not  come.  However,  about  ten  o'clock 
on  the  appointed  night  I  crouched  me  down, 
with  a  dark-lantern  in  my  pocket,  beneath 
Charlotte's  tombstone,  upon  which,  I  may 
here  mention,  I  had  got  a  mason  from  the 
village,  for  a  large  bribe,  to  put  a  slight  in- 
scription relative  to  my  brother,  which  he 
secretly  executed  between  Friday  evening  and 
the  dawn  of  Saturday.  Almost  contrary  to  my 
expectations,  Romelli  came;  but  I  think  some- 
what after  the.  hour  appointed,  with  a  dark- 
lantern  in  his  hand;  and,  finding  the  door  of 
the  aisle  open,  he  advanced  into  the  interior, 
and  began,  I  suppose,  to  read  the  inscription, 
which,  to  heighten  the  effect  of  my  revenge, 
as  above  stated,  I  had  caused  to  be  written  the 
preceding  night.  In  a  moment  I  started  up, 
and  ordered  him  to  fall  down  on  his  knees  and 
confess  his  crimes;  but  instead  of  obeying  me, 
no  sooner  did  he  see  who  I  was  than  he'drew 


"BUY   A  BROOM?" 


153 


a  pistol  and  shot  at  me,  missing  me,  however. 
My  turn  was  next,  and  I  missed  not  him. 
He  fell :  I  locked  the  aisle-door  that  you  might 
see  through  the  grating,  but  not  interfere.  I 
had  him  now  beneath  my  will  and  power. 
You  know  the  rest!  Hugo  Marl!  is  avenged: 
and  I  am  willing  to  die." 

Such  were  the  prisoner  Marli's  explanations, 
partly  won  by  the  cross-examinations  of  Hume, 
but  in  general  given  continuously,  and  of  his 
own  accord. 

"And  now,  Frederick  Hume,"  continued 
the  prisoner,  after  a  long  pause  of  mutual 
silence,  "you  alone,  of  all  the  human  race, 
are  dear  to  me;  will  you  promise  to  lay  my 
head  in  the  grave,  despite  of  the  ill  which 
Charlotte  and  I  have  done  you?"  "Bethink 
you  of  some  other  reasonable  request  and  I 
shall  do  it  for  you  to  the  utmost,"  answered 
Frederick;  "you  know  the  above  is  impossible." 
"No,  no,"  cried  Marli,  impatiently;  "you 
shall  lay  me  beside  her  in  your  own  aisle." 
"Antonio  Marli,  "returned  Frederick  solemnly, 
"must  I  remind  you  of  your  sad  sentence?" 
"0  ho!  you  mean  the  dissection?  The  pre- 
cious carnival  for  Dr.  Pry  and  his  pupils?" 
said  the  Italian,  laughing  grimly.  "But  if  I 
can  accomplish  the  half— If  I  can  get  quit  of 
the  claim  of  the  law  in  that  respect,  would  you 
so  bury  me,  my  brother?"  "Talk  not  of  this 
any  more,"  said  Hume,  not  comprehending 
what  the  prisoner  meant;  "but  cry  for  the 
purifying  mercy  of  Heaven  ere  you  die." 
"You  are  from  the  point,  sir,"  replied  Antonio; 
"but  hear  me: — I  will  leave  one  request  in  a 
letter  to  you  after  my  death,  if  you  will  pro- 
mise, and  swear — nay,  merely  promise  (for  I 
know  your  honour  in  all  things)  to  fulfil  the 
same."  "Let  me  hear  it,  and  judge,"  said 
Hume.  "I  will  not,"  said  the  Italian;  "but 
yet  my  request  shall  be  simple  and  your  ac- 
complishment of  it  very  easy.  Moreover  it 
shall  be  offensive  neither  to  your  country's 
laws  nor  to  your  own  wise  mind.  Give  me 
this  one  promise,  and  I  die  in  peace."  "Be  it 
so  then,"  said  Frederick;  "I  will  do  your  re- 
quest if  I  find  it  as  you  negatively  characterize 
it."  "Then  leave  me — leave  me  for  ever!" 
cried  Marli.  "But  if  my  heart,  and  body, 
and  all  my  soul,  could  be  fashioned  into  one 
blessing,  they  would  descend  upon  thy  head 
and  thy  heart,  and  all  thy  outgoings,  thou 
young  man  among  a  million. — Oh  !  my  last 
brother  on  earth!"  So  saying,  Marli  sprung 
upon  Frederick's  neck  and  sobbed  aloud  like  a 
little  child;  and  so  overcome  was  Frederick  by 
the  sense  of  his  own  unhappiness,  but  chiefly  by 
pity  for  the  fate  of  the  poor  Italian  boy,  in 


whose  heart  generosity  was  strongly  mingled 
with  worse  passions,  that  he  gave  way  to  the. 
infectious  sorrow;  and  for  many  minutes  the  two 
young  men  mingled  their  tears  as  if  they  had 
been  the  children  of  one  mother.  At  length 
Marli  tore  himself  away,  and  flung  himself 
violently  down  with  his  face  upon  his  low  bed. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

The  very  next  day  word  was  brought  to 
Frederick  Hume  that  the  Italian  had  killed 
himself  in  prison  by  striking  his  skull  against 
the  walls  of  his  cell,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
following  letter  was  put  into  Hume's  hands: — 

"I  claim  your  promise — I  forbore  distinctly 
stating  to  you  my  purpose  last  night,  because 
I  knew  you  would  have  teased  me  with  warn- 
ings and  exhortations,  which,  despite  of  my 
respect  for  your  wisdom,  could  no  more  have 
stayed  me  in  my  antique  appropriation  of 
myself,  than  you  could  make  a  rain-proof  gar- 
ment from  the  torn  wings  of  beautiful  butterflies. 
Did  you  think  my  soul  could  afford  to  give 
such  a  spectacle  to  gaping  boors?  Well,  we 
must  be  buried  in  the  first  instance  (for  the  law 
and  the  surgeon  have  lost  our  limbs)  among 
nettles,  in  unconsecrated  ground,  at  a  respectful 
distance  from  Christian  bones,  in  the  church- 
yard of  this  town.  But  now  for  my  request, 
and  your  vow  to  fulfil  it.  I  demand  that  you 
raise  my  body  by  night,  and  take  it  to  your 
aisle,  and  bury  it  beside  Charlotte  Marli's 
beautiful  body.  This  request,  I  think,  implies 
nothing  contrary  to  the  laws  of  your  country, 
or  which  can  startle  a  wise  heart  free  from 
paltry  superstitions  about  the  last  rites  of 
suicides.  Moreover,  you  can  do  the  thing  with 
great  secrecy.  Then  shall  I  rest  in  peace 
beside  her  whom  my  soul  loved;  and  we  shall 
rise  together  at  the  last  day :  and  you  shall  be 
blessed  for  ever,  for  her  sake  and  for  my  sake. 

Farewell,  my  brother. 

"ANTONIO  MARLI. 

Hume  prepared  without  delay  to  obey  this 
letter,  and  providing  himself  with  six  men 
from  the  village  of  Holydean,  on  whose  secrecy 
he  could  well  depend,  he  caused  three  of  them 
by  night  to  dig  up  the  body  of  Marli  from  the 
graveyard  where  it  had  been  buried,  whilst  the 
other  three,  in  the  meanwhile,  prepared  another 
grave  for  it  in  Mrs.  Mather's  aisle,  as  near  as 
possible  to  his  sister  Charlotte's.  The  com- 
plexion of  the  night  suited  well  this  strange 
work,  darkening  earth  and  heaven  with  piled 
lofts  of  blackness.  Frederick  himself  superin- 
tended the  work  of  exhumation,  which  was 
happily  accomplished  without  interruption. 


154 


A  RETROSPECTIVE  REVIEW. 


Leaving  two  of  his  men  to  fill  up  carefully  the 
empty  grave,  with  the  third  he  then  accompanied 
the  cart  in  which,  wrapped  in  a  sheet,  the  body 
of  Marli  was  transferred  to  Holydean  church- 
yard. There  it  was  interred  anew  beside  his 
sister's  remains,  and  the  grave  being  filled  up 
level  with  the  surface,  the  remains  of  the  earth 
were  carefully  disposed  of,  so  that  without  a 
very  nice  inspection,  it  could  not  be  known, 
from  the  appearance  of  the  ground,  that  this 
new  burial  had  taken  place  in  the  aisle.  Thus 
w&i  Antonio  Marli's  singular  request  faithfully 
accomplished. 

Next  morning  Hume  visited  the  aisle,  to  see 
that  all  was  right.  The  history  of  the  Marlis, 
and  their  late  living  existence,  and  his  own 
share  in  their  strange  destinies,  all  seemed  to 
him  a  dream;  yet  their  palpable  tombs  were 
before  him,  and  prostrate  in  heart  from  recur- 
ring recollections  of  their  fate  and  his  own  so 
deeply  intertwisted,  he  remained  one  last  bitter 
hour  beside  the  graves  of  these  wild  and  pas- 
sionate children  of  the  South. 

Julia  Komelli  heard,  too  late,  how  she  had 
been  imposed  upon,  in  reference  to  Hume's 
supposed  inconstancy  of  affection,  but,  for  their 
mutual  peace  of  mind,  she  determined  never 
to  see  him  more,  and  never  to  exchange  ex- 
planations with  him.  As  for  Frederick,  he 
too  had  resolved  steadfastly  to  observe  the  same 
forbearance.  But  though  Julia  could  be 'so 
self-denied,  she  was  not  the  less  inwardly 
racked,  as  she  reflected  on  her  own  unhappy 
rashness.  Her  father's  murder  was  a  dreadful 
aggravation  to  her  distress,  which  was  still 
farther  heightened  by  the  harsh  treatment  of 
her  husband  Stewart,  who  was  conscious  pro- 
bably that  his  wife  had  never  loved  him.  The 
loss  of  her  first-born  boy,  who  was  unhappily 
drowned  in  a  well,  brought  the  terrible  con- 
summation. Poor  Julia  went  mad,  and  night 
after  night  (for  her  brutal  husband  cared  little 
for  her)  she  might  be  seen,  when  the  image  of 
the  full  moon  was  shining  down  in  the  bottom 
of  the  well,  sitting  on  its  bank  and  inviting 
passengers  to  come  and  see  her  little  white 
boy  swimming  in  the  water.  From  week  to 
week  she  grew  more  violent  in  her  insanity, 
and  after  many  years  of  woful  alienation,  she 
ended  her  days  in  that  very  cell  where  Antonio 
Marli  had  once  lain. 

A  few  days  after  the  second  burial  of  Antonio 
Marli,  Frederick  Hume  went  to  London. 
There  he  found  means  of  being  present  at  a  ball 
to  see  the  great  Nelson,  who  was  that  year  in 
this  country.  It  was  most  glorious  to  see  the 
swan-like  necks  and  the  deep  bosoms  of  Eng- 
land's proudest  beauties  bending  towards  him, 


round  about,  when  he  entered — that  man  with 
his  thin  weather-worn  aspect.  And  never  did 
England's  beauties  look  so  proudly,  as  when  thus 
hanging  like  jewels  of  his  triumph  around  their 
rnanly  and  chivalrous  sailor,  who  had  given  his 
best  blood  to  the  green  sea  for  his  country. 
He,  too,  felt  his  fame,  for  the  pale  lines  of  hia 
face,  as  if  charged  with  electricity,  were  up  and 
trembling,  as  in  the  day  of  his  enthusiastic 
battle. 

At  sight  of  this  unparalleled  man,  Frederick 
was  struck  to  the  heart.  He  bethought  him 
how  much  more  noble  it  was,  since  his  life  was 
now  of  little  value  to  him,  to  lose  it  for  his 
country,  than  waste  it  away  in  selfish  unhap- 
piness.  Accordingly,  our  doctor  gave  up  his 
more  peaceful  profession,  and  with  the  consent 
and  by  the  assistance  of  his  patroness,  Mrs. 
Mather,  he  entered  the  navy.  In  his  very 
first  engagement  he  found  the  death  which  he 
did  all  but  court,  and  his  body  went  down  into 
the  deep  sea  for  a  grave. 


A  RETROSPECTIVE  REVIEW. 

Oh,  when  I  was  a  tiny  boy 

My  days  and  nights  were  full  of  joy, 

My  mates  were  blythe  and  kind! 
No  wonder  that  I  sometimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  tear-drop  from  mine  eye, 

To  cast  a  look  behind ! 

A  hoop  was  an  eternal  round 

Of  pleasure.     In  those  days  I  found 

A  top  a  joyous  thing; — 
But  now  those  past  delights  I  drop, 
My  head,  alas !  is  all  my  top, 

And  careful  thoughts  the  string ! 

My  marbles — once  my  bag  was  stored, — 
Now  I  must  play  with  Elgin's  lord, 

With  Theseus  for  a  taw ! 
My  playful  horse  has  slipt  his  string, 
Forgotten  all  his  capering, 

And  harnessed  to  the  law ! 

My  kite, — how  fast  and  far  it  flew! 
Whilst  I,  a  sort  of  Franklin,  drew 

My  pleasure  from  the  sky ! 
'Twas  paper'd  o'er  with  studious  themes, 
The  tasks  I  wrote, — my  present  dreams 

Will  never  soar  so  high. 

My  joys  ai-e  wingless  all  and  dead ; 
My  dumps  are  made  of  more  than  lead; 
My  flights  soon  find  a  fall; 


TO   BLOSSOMS. 


155 


My  fears  prevail,  my  fancies  droop, 
Joy  never  cometh  with  a  Loop, 
And  seldom  with  a  callij! 

My  football's  laid  upon  the  shelf  ;— 
I  am  a  shuttlecock  myself 

The  world  knocks  to  and  fro, — 
My  archery  is  all  unlearned, 
And  grief  against  myself  has  turned 

My  arrows  and  my  bow  ! 

No  more  in  noontide  sun  I  bask; 
My  authorship's  an  endless  task, 

My  head's  ne'er  oub  of  school. — 
My  heart  is  pained  with  scorn  and  slight, 
I  have  too  many  foes  to  fight, 

And  friends  grown  strangely  cool ! 

The  very  chum  that  shared  my  cake 
Holds  out  so  cold  a  hand  to  shake, 

It  makes  me  shrink  and  sigh, — 
On  this  I  will  not  dwell  and  hang, 
The  changeling  would  not  feel  a  pang 

Though  these  should  meet  his  eye ! 

No  skies  so  blue  or  so  serene 

As  then ; — no  leaves  look  half  so  green 

As.  clothed  the  play-ground  tree ! 
All  things  I  loved  are  altered  so, 
Nor  does  it  ease  my  heart  to  know 

That  change  resides  in  me ! 

Oh,  for  the  garb  that  marked  the  boy, — 
The  trowsers  made  of  corduroy. 

Well  ink'd  with  black  and  red ; 
The  crownless  hat, — ne'er  deem'd  an  ill,— - 
It  only  let  the  sunshine  still 

Kepose  upon  my  head ! 

Oh  for  the  ribbon  round  the  neck ! 
The  careless  dog's-ears  apt  to  deck 

My  book  and  collar  both ! 
How  can  this  formal  man  be  styled 
Merely  an  Alexandrine  child, 

A  boy  of  larger  growth  ? 

Oh,  ft>r  that  small,  small  beer  anew! 

And  (heaven's  own  type)  that  mild  sky-blue 

That  washed  my  sweet  meals  down ; 
The  master  even  !— and  that  small  Turk 
That  fagged  me  ! — worse  is  now  rny  work — 

A  fag  for  all  the  town ! 

Oh  for  the  lessons  learned  Hy  heart ! 
Ay,  though  the  very  birch's  smart 

Should  mark  those  hours  again ; 
I'd  "  kiss  the  rod,"  and  be  resigned 
Beneath  the  stroke, — and  even  iiud 

Some  sugar  in  the  cane ! 


The  Arabian  Nights  rehearsed  in  bed! 
The  Fairy  Tales  in  school-time  read, 

By  stealth,  'twixt  verb  and  noun  ! 
The  angel  form  that  always  walked 
In  all  my  dreams,  and  looked  and  talked 

Exactly  like  Miss  Brown ! 

The  "omne  bene" — Christmas  come, — 
The  prize  of  merit,  won  for  home, — 

Merit  had  prizes  then ! 
Bat  now  I  write  for  days  and  days, — 
For  fame — a  deal  of  empty  praise 
Without  the  silver  pen ! 

Then  home,  sweet  home !  the  crowded  coach,  - 
The  joyous  shout, — the  loud  approach,  — 

The  winding  horns  like  rains' ! 
The  meeting  sweet  that  made  me  thrill, — • 
The  sweetmeats  almost  sweeter  still, 

No  "satis"  to  the  "jams." 

When  that  I  was  a  tiny  boy 

My  days  and  nights  were  full  of  joy, 

My  mates  were  blythe  and  kind, — 
No  wonder  that  I  sornefcimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  tear-drop  from  my  ey«» 

To  cast  a  look  behind ! 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 

[Robert  Herrick,  born  in  London,  1591 ;  died  at 
Dean  Prior,  October,  1674.  The  author  of  the  Hesjierides 
was  the  son  of  a  goldsmith  in  Cheapside.  He  was  pre- 
sented by  Charles  I.  to  the  vicarage  of  Dean  Prior  iu 
Devonshire.  <He  was  ejected  from  his  living  during  the 
Commonwealth,  and  replaced  after  the  Restoration.] 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  you  fall  so  fast? 
Your  date  is  not  so  past ; 
But  you  may  stay  here  yet  a  while, 
To  blush  and  gently  smile; 
And  go  at  last. 

What,  were  ye  born  to  be, 
An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good-night? 
'Twas  pity  nature  brought  ye  forth, 
Merely  to  show  your  worth, 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave : 
And  after  they  have  shown  their  prida 
Like  you  a  while,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 


156 


THE  ENCHANTER  .FAUSTUS. 


THE  ENCHANTER   FAUSTUS  AND 
QUEEN   ELIZABETH. 

Elizabeth  was  a  wonderful  princess  for  wis- 
dom, learning,  magnificence,  and  grandeur  of 
soul.  All  this  was  fine, — but  she  was  as  envious 
as  a  decayed  beauty — jealous  and  cruel — and 
that  spoifed  all.  However,  be  her  defects  what 
they  may,  her  fame  had  pierced  even  to  the 
depths  of  Germany,  whence  the  Enchanter 
Faustus  set  off  for  her  court,  that  great  ma- 
gician wishing  to  ascertain  by  his  own  wits, 
whether  Elizabeth  was  as  gifted  with  good 
qualities  as  she  was  with  bad.  No  one  could 
judge  this  for  him  so  well  as  himself— who 
read  the  stars  like  his  A,  B,  C,  and  whom 
Satan  obeyed  like  his  dog — yet,  withal,  who 
was  not  above  a  thousand  pleasant  tricks, 
that  make  people  laugh,  and  hurt  no  one. 
Such,  for  instance,  as  turning  an  old  lord 
into  an  old  lady,  to  elope  with  his  cook-maid 
— exchanging  a  handsome  wife  for  an  ugly 
one,  &c.  &c. 

The  queen,  charmed  with  the  pretty  things 
which  she  heard  of  him,  wished  much  to  see 
him — and  from  the  moment  that  she  did, 
became  quite  fascinated.  On  his  side,  he  found 
her  better  than  he  had  expected,  not  but  that 
he  perceived  she  thought  a  great  deal  too  much 
of  her  wit — though  she  had  a  tolerable  share 
of  it,  and  still  more  of  her  beauty — of  which 
she  had  rather  less. 

One  day  that  she  was  dressed  with  extra- 
ordinary splendour,  to  give  audience  to  some 
ambassadors,  she  retired  into  her  cabinet  at 
the  close  of  the  ceremony,  and  sent  for  the 
doctor.  After  having  gazed  at  herself  in  all 
the  mirrors  in  the  room,  and  seeming  very  well 
p leased  with  their  reflection, — for  her  roses 
and  lilies  were  as  good  as  gold  could  buy — her 
petticoat  high  enough  to  show  her  ankle,  and 
her  frill  low  to  expose  her  bosom, — she  sat 
down  en  altitude,  in  her  great  chair.  It  was 
thus  the  Enchanter  Faustus  found  her.  He 
was  the  most  adroit  courtier  that  you  could 
find,  though  you  searched  the  world  over.  For 
though  there  are  good  reasons  why  a  courtier 
may  not  be  a  conjuror,  there  are  none  why  a 
conjuror  may  not  be  a  courtier;  and  Faustus, 
both  in  one — knowing  the  queen's  foible  as  to 
her  imaginary  beauty — took  care  not  to  let  slip 
BO  fine  an  opportunity  of  paying  his  court.  He 
was  wonderstruck,  thunderstruck,  at  such  a 
blaze  of  perfection.  Elizabeth  knew  how  to 
appreciate  the  moment  of  surprise.  She  drew 
a  magnificent  ruby  from  her  finger,  which  the 


doctor,  without  making  difficulties  about  it, 
drew  on  his. 

'You  find  me  then  passable  for  a  queen," 
said  she,  smiling.  On  this  he  wished  himself 
at  the  devil  (his  old  resting-place),  it,  not 
alone  tliat  he  had  ever  seen,  but  if  anybody 
else  had  ever  seen,  either  queen  or  subject  to 
equal  her. 

"Oh    Faustus,   my    friend,"    replied    she, 
couid  the  beauties  of  antiquity  return,  we 
should  soon  see  what  a  flatterer  you  are!" 
"I  dare  the  proof/'  returned  the  doctor. 
If  your  majesty  will  it — but  speak  and  they 
are  here." 

Faustus,  of  course,  never  expected  to  be 
taken  at  his  word;  but  whether  Elizabeth 
wished  to  see  if  magic  could  perform  the  miracle, 
or  to  satisfy  a  curiosity  that  had  often  tormented 
her,  she  expressed  herself  amazingly  pleased  at 
the  idea,  and  begged  it  might  be  immediately 
realized. 

Faustus  then  requested  her  majesty  to  pass 
into  a  little  gallery  near  the  apartment,  while 
he  went  for  his  book,  his  ring,  and  his  large 
black  mantle. 

All  this  was  done  nearly  as  soon  as  said. 
There  was  a  door  at  each  end  of  the  gallery, 
and  it  was  decided  that  the  beauties  should 
come  in  at  one,  and  go  out  at  the  other,  so  that 
the  queen  might  have  a  fair  view  of  them. 
Only  two  of  the  courtiers  were  admitted  to 
this  exhibition;  these  were  the  Earl  of  Essex 
and  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

Her  majesty  was  seated  in  the  middle  of  the 
gallery,  with  the  earl  and  the  knight  standing 
to  the  right  and  left  of  her  chair.  The  en- 
chanter did  not  forget  to  trace  round  them  and 
their  mistress  certain  mysterious  circles,  with 
all  the  grimaces  and  contortions  of  the  time. 
He  then  drew  another  opposite  to  it,  within 
which  he  took  his  own  station,  leaving  a  space 
between  for  the  actors. 

When  this  was  finished,  he  begged  the  queen 
not  to  speak  a  word  while  they  should  be  on 
the  stage ;  and  above  all,  not  to  appear  fright- 
ened, let  her  see  what  she  might. 

The  latter  precaution  was  needless;  for  the 
good  queen  feared  neither  angel  nor  devil. 
And  now  the  doctor  inquired  what  belle  of 
antiquity  she  would  first  see. 

"  To  follow  the  order  of  time,"  she  answered, 
"they  should  commence  with  HELEN." 

The  magician,  with  a  changing  countenance, 
now  exclaimed,  "Sit  still!" 

Sidney's  heart  beat  quick.  The  brave  Essex 
turned  pale.  As  to  the  queen,  not  the  slightest 
emotion  was  perceptible. 

Faustus  soon  commenced   some   muttered 


THE  ENCHANTER  FAUSTUS. 


157 


incantations  and  strange  evolutions,  such  as 
were  the  fashion  of  the  day  for  conjurors. 
Anon  the  gallery  shook,  so  did  the  two  courtiers, 
and  the  doctor,  in  a  voice  of  anger,  called  out, 

"  Daughter  of  fair  Leda,  hear ! 
From  thy  far  Elysiaii  sphere; 
Lovely  as  when,  for  his  fee, 
To  Paris  Venus  promised  thee. 
Appear— appear — appear  J " 

Accustomed  to  command,  rather  than  to  be 
commanded,  the  fair  Helen  lingered  to  the  last 
possible  moment;  but  when  the  last  moment 
came,  so  did  she,  and  so  suddenly,  that  no  one 
knew  how  she  got  there.  She  was  habited  a 
la  Grecque, — her  hair  ornamented  with  pearls 
and  a  superb  aigrette.  The  figure  passed  slowly 
onwards  —  stopped  for  an  instant  directly 
opposite  the  queen  aa  if  to  gratify  her  curi- 
osity, took  leave  of  her  with  a  malicious  smile, 
and  vanished.  She  had  scarcely  disappeared 
when  her  majesty  exclaimed — "What!  that 
the  fair  Helen !  I  don't  pique  myself  on  beauty, 
but  may  I  die  if  I  would  change  faces  with 
her!" 

"I  told  your  majesty  how  it  would  be," 
remarked  the  enchanter;  "and  yet  there  she  is, 
as  she  was  in  her  best  days. " 

"She  has,  however,  very  fine  eyes,"  observed 
Essex. 

"Yes,"  said  Sidney,  "they  are  large,  dark, 
and  brilliant — but  after  all,  what  do  they  say?" 
added  he,  correcting  himself. 

"Nothing,"  replied  the  favourite. 

The  queen,  who  was  this  day  extravagantly 
rouged,  asked  if  they  did  not  think  Helen's 
tint  too  China-while. 

"China!"  cried  the  earl;  " Delf  rather. " 

"Perhaps,"  continued  the  queen,  "it  was 
the  fashion  of  her  time,  but  you  must  confess 
that  such  turned-in  toes  would  have  been 
endured  in  no  other  woman.  I  don't  dislike 
her  style  of  dress,  however,  and  probably  I 
may  bring  it  round  again,  in  place  of  these 
troublesome  hoops,  which  have  their  inconven- 
iences. " 

"0,  as  to  the  dress,"  chimed  in  the  favourite 
— "let  it  pass,  it  is  well  enough,  which  is 
more  than  can  be  said  for  the  wearer." 

A  conclusion  in  which  Sidney  heartily 
joined,  rhapsodying — 

"0  Paris,  fata]  was  the  hour, 
When,  victim  to  the  blind  god's  power, 
Within  your  native  walks  you  bore 
That  firebrand  from  a  foreign  shore ; 
Who— ah  so  little  worth  the  strife ! — 
Was  fit  for  nothing,  but  a  wife." 


"Od's  my  life  now,"  said  her  majesty, — 
"but  I  think  she  looks  fitter  for  anything 
else,  Sidney! — My  lord  of  Essex,  how  think 
you?" 

"As  your  majesty  does,"  returned  he; — • 
"there  is  a  meaning  in  that  eye." 

"And  a  minute  past  they  said  there  was 
none,"  thought  Faustus. 

This  liberal  critique  on  the  fair  Helen  being 
concluded,  the  queen  desired  to  see  the  beauti- 
ful and  hopeless  Mariamne. 

The  enchanter  did  not  wait  to  be  twice  asked; 
but  he  did  not  choose  to  invoke  a  princess  who 
had  worshipped  at  holy  altars  in  the  same 
manner  as  he  had  summoned  the  fair  Pagan. 
It  was  then,  by  way  of  ceremony,  that  turning 
four  times  to  the  east,  three  to  the  south,  two 
to  the  west,  and  only  once  to  the  north,  he  ut- 
tered, with  great  suavity,  in  Hebrew — 

"Lovely  Mariamne,  oomel 
Though  thou  sleepest  far  away, 
Regal  spirit  I  leave  thy  tomb  1 
Let  the  splendours  round  thee  play, 
Silken  robe  and  diamond  stone, 
Such  as,  on  thy  bridal-day, 
Flash'd  from  proud  Judea's  throne." 

Scarcely  had  he  concluded,  when  the  spousft 
of  Herod  made  her  appearance,  and  gravely 
advanced  into  the  centre  of  the  gallery,  where 
she  halted,  as  her  predecessor  had  done.  She 
was  robed  nearly  like  the  high-priest  of  the 
Jews,  except  that  instead  of  the  tiara,  a  veil, 
descending  from  the  crown  of  the  head,  and 
slightly  attached  to  the  cincture,  fell  far  behind 
her.  Those  graceful  and  flowing  draperies 
threw  over  the  whole  figure  of  the  lovely  Hebrew 
an  air  of  indescribable  dignity.  After  having 
stopped  for  several  minutes  before  the  company, 
she  pursued  her  way — but  without  paying  the 
slightest  parting  compliment  to  the  haughty 
Elizabeth. 

"Is  it  possible,"  said  the  queen,  before  she 
had  well  disappeared, — "is  it  possible  that 
Mariamne  was  such  a  figure  as  that? — such  a 
tall,  pale,  meagre,  melancholy-looking  affair, 
to  have  passed  for  a  beauty  through  so  many 
centuries!" 

"By  my  honour,"  quoth  Essex,  "had  I  been 
in  Herod's  place,  I  should  never  have  been 
angry  at  her  keeping  her  distance. " 

"Yet  I  perceived,"  said  Sidney,  "a  certain 
touching  languor  in  the  countenance — an  air 
of  dignified  simplicity." 

Her  majesty  looked  grave. 

"  Fye,  fye,"  returned  Essex,  "it  was  haughti- 
ness— her  manner  is  full  of  presumption,  — aye, 
and  even  her  height." 


THE  ENCHANTER  FAUSTUS. 


The  queen  having  approved  of  Essex's  de- 
cision— -on  her  own  part,  condemned  the 
princess  for  her  aversion  to  her  spouse,  which, 
though  the  world  alleged  to  have  been  caused  '• 
by  his  being  the  cut-throat  of  her  family,  she 
saw  nothing  to  justify,  whatever  a  husband 
might  be.  A  wife  was  a  wife;  and  Herod  had 
done  quite  right  in  cutting  off  the  heads  ef  the 
offenders. 

Faustus,  who  affected  universal  knowledge, 
assured  her  majesty  that  all  the  historians  were 
in  error  on  tha,t  point;  for  he  had  had  it  himself 
from  a  living  witness,  that  the  true  cause  of 
Herod's  vengeance  was  his  spiteful  old-maid  of 
a  sister — Salome's  overhearing  Mariamne — one 
day  at  prayers — beg  of  Heaven  to  rid  her  of 
her  worthless  husband. 

After  a  moment  of  thought,  the  queen,  with 
the  same  indifference  with  which  she  would 
have  called  for  her  waiting-maid — desired  to 
see  t.'leopatra;  for  the  Egyptian  queen  not 
hav'.ig  been  quite  as  corfime  il  faut  as  the 
BiMidh,  the  latter  treated  her  accordingly. 
The  beautiful  Cleopatra  quickly  made  her 
appearance  at  the  extremity  of  the  gallery, — 
and  Elizabeth  expected  that  this  apparition 
would  fully  make  up  for  the  disappointment 
which  the  others  had  occasioned.  Scarcely  had 
she  entered  when  the  air  was  loaded  with  the 
rich  perfumes  of  Arabia. 

Her  bosom,  that  had  been  melting  as  charity, 
was  open  as  day, — a  loop  of  diamonds  and 
rubies  gathered  the  drapery  as  much  above  the 
left  knee,  as  it  might  as  well  have  been  below  it, 
-r=and  a  woven  wind  of  transparent  gauze, 
spftened  the  figure  which  it'flid  not  conceal. 

In  this  gay  and  gallant  costume,  the  mistress 
of  Antony  glided  through  the  gallery,  making 
a  similar  pause  as  the  others.  No  sooner  was 
her  back  turned,  than  the  courtiers  began  to 
tear  her  person  and  frippery  to  pieces, — the 
queen  calling  out,  like  one  possessed,  for  paper 
to  burn  under  her  nose,  to  drive  away  the 
vapours  occasioned  by  the  gums  with  wlfich 
the  mummy  was  filled, — declared  her  insup- 
portable in  every  sense,  and  far  beneath  even 
the  wife  of  Herod,  or  the  daughter  of  Leda, — 
shocked  at  her  Diana  drapery-,  ;to  exhibit  the 
most  villanous  leg  in  the  world,— and  protested 
that  a  thicker  robe  would  have  much  better 
become  her. 

Whatever  the  two  courtiers  might  have 
thought,  they  were  forced  to  join  in  these 
sarcasms,  which  tlie  frail  Egyptian  excited  in 
peculiar  severity. 

"Such  a  cocked  nose!"  said  Ihe  queen. 

"Such  impertinent  eyes!"  said  Essex. 

Sidney,  in  addition  to  her  other  defects, 


found  out  that  she  had  too  much  stomach  and 
too  little  back. 

"Say  of  her  as  you  please,"  returned  Faustwa 
— "one  she  is,  however,  who  led  the  master  of 
the  world  in  her  chains.  But,  madam,"  added 
he,  turning  to  the  queen,  "as  these  far-famed 
foreign  beauties  are  not  to  your  taste,  why  go 
beyond  your  own  kingdom,  England,  which 
has  always  produced  the  models  of  female 
perfection — as  we  may  even  at  this  moment 
perceive — will  furnish  an  object  perhaps  worthy 
of  your  attention  in  the  fair  Rosamond."  Now 
Faustus  had  heard  that  the  queen  fancied 
herself  to  resemble  the  fair  Rosamond;  and  no 
sooner* was  the  name  mentioned,  than  she  was 
all  impatience  to  see  her. 

"  There  is  a  secret  instinct  in  this  impa- 
tience," observed  the  doctor,  craftily;  "for, 
according  to  tradition,  the  fair  Rosamond  had 
much  resemblance  to  your  majesty,  though,  of 
course,  in  an  inferior  style." 

"Let  us  judge — let  us  judge,"  replied  tho 
queen,  hastily;  "but  from  the  moment  she 
appears,  Sir  Sidney,  I  request  of  you  to  observe 
her  minutely,  that  we  may  have  her  descrip- 
tion, if  she  is  worth  it."  This  order  being  given, 
and  some  little  conjuration  made,  as  Rosamond 
was  only  a  short  distance  from  London,  she 
made  her  appearance  in  a  second.  Even  at  the 
door  her  beauty  charmed  every  one,  but  as  she 
advanced  she  enchanted  them;  and  when  she 
stopped  to  be  gazed  at,  the  admiration  of  the 
company,  with  difficulty  restrained  to  signs 
and  looks,  exhibited  their  high  approbation  of 
the  taste  of  Henry  II.  Nothing  could  exceed 
the  simplicity  of  her  dress;  and  yet  in  that 
simplicity  she  effaced  the  splendours  of  day,  at 
least  to  the  spectators.  She  waited  before  them 
a  long  time,  much  longer  than  the  others  had 
done;  and,  as  if  aware  of  the  command  the 
queen  had  given,  she  turned  especially  towards 
Sidney,  looking  at  him  with  an  expressive 
smile.  But  she  must  go  at  last.  And  when 
she  was  go.ne,  "  My  lord,"  said  the  queen, 
"what  a  pretty  creature!  I  never  saw  anything 
so  charming  in  my  life.  What  a  figure!  what 
dignity  without  affectation!  what  brilliancy 
without  artifice!  and  it  is  said  that  I  resemble 
her.  My  lord  of  Essex,  what  think  you?" 
My  lord  thought,  Would  to  Heaven  you  did; 
I  would  give  the  best  steed  in  my  stable  that 
you  had  even  an  ugly  likeness  to  her.  But  he 
.said,  "  Your  majesty  has  but  to  make  the  tour 
of  the  gallery  in  her  green  robe  and  primrose 
petticoat,  and  if  our  magician  himself  would 
not  mistake  you  for  her,  count  me  the  greatest 
—  of  your  three  kingdoms." 

Buring  all  this  flattery  with  which  the  fa- 


TO  A  HIGHLAND  GIRL. 


159 


von  rite  charmed  the  ears  of  the  good  queen, 
the  poet  Sidney,  pencil  in  hand,  was  sketching 
the  visien  of  the  fair  Rosamond. 

Her  majesty  then  commanded  it  should  be 
read,  and  when  she  heard  it,  pronounced  it 
rery  clever;  but  as  it  was  a  real  impromptu, 
not  one  of  those  born  long  before,  and  was 
written  for  a  particular  audience,  as  a  picture 
is  painted  for  a  particular  light,  we  think  it 
but  justice  to  the  celebrated  author  not  to  draw 
his  lines  from  the  venerable  antiquity  in  which 
they  rest  even  if  we  had  the  MS.  copy;  but  we 
have  not,  which  at  once  finishes  the  business. 

After  the  reading,  they  deliberated  on  the 
next  that  should  succeed  Rosamond.  The  en- 
chantely  still  of  opinion  that  they  need  not 
leave  England  when  beauty  was  the  object  in 
question,  proposed  the  famous  Countess  of 
Salisbury-^-who  gave  rise  to  the  institution  of 
the  Garter.  The  idea  was  approved  of  by  the 
queen,  and  particularly  agreeable  to  the  cour- 
tiers, as  they  wished  to  see  if  the  cause  were 
worthy  of  the  effect — i.e.  the  leg  of  the  garter; 
but  her  majesty  declared  that  she  should  par- 
ticularly like  a  second  sight  of  her  lovely 
resemblance,  the  fair  Rosamond.  The  doctor 
vowed  that  the  affair  was  next  to  impracticable 
in  the  order  of  conjuration — the  recall  of  a 
phantom  not  depending  on  the  powers  sub- 
mitted to  the  first  enchantments.  But  the 
more  he  declared  against  it  the  more  the  qi>een 
insisted,  until  he  was  obliged,  at  last,  to  sub- 
mit, but  with  the  information,  that  if  Rosa- 
mond should  return,  it  would  not  be  by  the 
way  in  which  she  had  entered  or  retired  already, 
and  that  they  had  best  take  care  of  themselves, 
as  he  could  answer  for  no  one. 

The  queen,  as  we  have  elsewhere  observed, 
kneV  not  what  fear  was;  and  the  two  courtiers 
were  now  a  little  reassured  on  the  subject  of 
apparitions.  The  doctor  then  set  about  accom- 
plishing the  queen's  wishes.  Never  had  con- 
juration cost  hini  so  much  trouble,  and  after  a 
thousand  grimaces  and  contortions — neither 
pretty  nor  polite — he  flung  his  book  into  the 
middle  of  the  gallery,  went  three  times  round 
it  on  his  hands  and  feet,  then  made  the  tree 
against  the  wall,  head  down  and  heels  up;  but 
nothing  appearing,  he  had  recourse  to  the  last 
and  most  powerful  of  his  spells — what  that  was 
must  remain  for  ever  a  mystery,  for  certain 
reasons;  but  he  wound  it  up  by  three  times 
summoning,  with  a  sonorous'  voice,  "Rosa- 
mond !  Rosamond !  Rosamond  ! "  At  the  last 
of  these  magic  cries  the  grand  win'cfow  burst 
open  with  the  sudden  crash  of  a  tempest,  and 
through  it  descended  the  lovely  Rosamond  into 
the  middle  of  the  room. 


The  doctor  was  in  a  cold  sAveat,  and  while 
he  dried  himself,  the  queen,  who  thought  her 
fair  visitant  a  thousand  times  the  fairer  for 
the  additional  difficulty  in  procuring  this 
second  sight,  for  once  let  her  prudence  sleep, 
and,  in  a  transport  of  enthusiasm,  stepping 
out  of  her  circle  with  epen  arms,  cried  out, 
"  My  clear  likeness  !"  No  sooner  was  the  word 
out  than  a  violent  clap  of  thunder  shook  the 
whole  palace;  a  black  vapour  filled  the  gallery, 
and  a  train  of  little  fantastic  lightnings  serpen- 
tined to  the  right  and  left  in  the  dazzled  eyes 
of  the  company. 

When  the  obscurity  was  a  little  dissipated, 
they  saw  the  magician,  with  his  four  limbs  in 
air,  foaming  like  a  wild  boar — his  cap  here, 
his  wig  there:  in  short,  by  no  means  an  object 
of  either  the  sublime  or  beautiful.  But  though 
he  came  off  the  worst,  yet  no  one  in  the  adven- 
ture escaped  quite  dear,  except  Rosamond. 
The  lightning  burned  away  my  lord  of  Essex's 
right  brow;  Sir  Sidney  lost  the  left  moustachio; 
her  majesty's  head-dress  smelt  villanously  of 
the  sulphur,  and  her  hoop-petticoat  was  so 
puckered  up  with  the  scorching,  that  it  was 
ordered  to  be  preserved  among  the  royal  dra- 
peries, as  a  warning,  to  all  maids  of  honour  to 
come,  against  curiosity. 

COUNT  ANTHONY  HAMILTON, 


TO  A  HIGHLAND  GIRL 

AT   INVERSNEYDE,    UPON   LOCHLOMONIX 

Sweet  Highland  girl,  a  very  shower 

Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dowef^ 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 

Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 

And  these  gray  rocks;  this  household  lawn ; 

These  trees,  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn; 

This  fall  of  water,  that  doth  make 

A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake; 

This  little  bay,  a  quiet  road 

That  hold  iu  shelter  thy  abode; 

In  truth  together  ye  do  seem 

Like  something  fashioned  in  a  dream; 

Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 

When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 

Yet,  dream  and  vision  as  thou  art, 

I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart: 

God  shfeld  thee  to  thy  latest  years ! 

I  neither  know  thee  nor  thy  peers, 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  teari. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  praf 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away :       t 


3«0 


THE  POET'S  DREAM. 


For  never  saw  I  mien,  or  face, 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here,  scattered  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress, 
And  maidenly  shamefaeedness : 
Thou  weai'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  mountaineer. 
A  face  with  gladness  overspread ! 
Sweet  looks,  by  human  kindness  bred 
And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  cou  tesies,  about  thee  plays ; 
With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech : 
A  bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life ! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 
Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind, 
Thus  beating  up  agaiust  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful ! 

0  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell ; 
Adopt  your  homely  ways  and  dress, 
A  shepherd,  thou  a  shepherdess ! 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality : 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  \rave 

Of  the  wild  sea :  and  I  would  have 

Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 

Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 

What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see! 

Thy  elder  brother  I  would  be, 

Thy  f ather,  anything  to  thee ! 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven !  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 
Joy  have  I  had ;  and  going  hence 

1  bear  away  my  recompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes : 
Then,  why  should  I  be  loath  to  stir? 
I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her; 
To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 
Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 
Nor  am  I  loath,  though  pleased  at  heart, 
Sweet  Highland  girl,  from  thee  to  part ; 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old, 
As  fair  before  me  shall  behold, 
As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 
The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 
And  thee,  the  spirit  of  them  all! 

WORDSWORTH. 


THE  POET'S  DEEAM.1 

Snch  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunte  i  stream. 

Milton's  L' Allege*. 

It  was  the  minstrel's  merry  month  of  June; 

Silent  and  sultry  glowed  the  breezeless  noon ; 

Along  the  flowers  the  bee  went  murmuring; 

Life  in  its  myriad  forms  was  on  the  wing, 

Broke  through  the  green  leaves  with  the  quivering 

beam, 

Sung  from  the  grove,  and  sparkled  on  the  stream : 
When — where  you  beech-tree  broke  the  summer  ray — 
Wrapped  in  rich  dreams  of  light — young  MiLTGir  luy. 
For  him  the  earth  beneath,  the  heaven  above, 
Teemed  with  the  earliest  spring  of  joyous  youth; 
Sunshine  and  flowers— and  vague  and  virgin  Love, 
Kindling  his  tenderest  visions  into  truth, 
While  Poesy's  sweet  voice  sung  over  all, 
Making  the  common  air  most  musical. 

Alone  he  lay,  and  to  the  laughing  beams 
His  long  locks  glittered  in  their  golden  streams ; 
Calm  on  his  brow  sate  wisdom— yet  the  while 
His  lips  wore  love,  and  parted  with  a  smile ; 
And  beauty  reigned  along  each  faultless  limb  — 
The  lavish  beauty  of  the  olden  day, 
Ere  with  harsh  toil  our  mortal  mould  grew  dim— 
When  gods  who  sought  for  true  love  met  him  here, 
And  the  veiled  Dian  lost  her  lonely  sphere— 
And  her  proud  name  of  chaste,  for  him  whose  sleep 
Drank  in  Elysium  on  the  Latmos  steep. 
Nor  without  solemn  dream,  or  vision  bright, 
The  bard  for  whom  Urania  left  the  shore — 
The  viewless  shore  where  never  sleeps  the  light, 
Or  falls  the  voice  of  music ;  and  bequeathed 
Such  flowers  as  ne'er  by  Thracian  well  were  wreathed— 
And  song  more  high  than  e'er  on  Chian  Rock  was 
breathed. 


1  Painter  and  poet  have  united  in  preserving  a  pretty 
anecdote  of  Milton's  youth.  A  lady  with  her  attendant 
walking  in  the  forest  found  the  poet  asleep  under  a 
tree,  and  she  was  so  charmed  by  his  beauty  that  she 
pencilled  a  few  admiring  lines  and  placed  the  paper 
beside  him .  There  are  different  versions  of  the  incident, 
and  by  some  it  is  said  tor  have  occurred  during  Milton's 
travels  in  Italy ;  but  it  is  quite  as  likely  to  have  hap- 
pened during  his  residence  at  his  father's  house  at 
Horton  in  Buckinghamshire,  where  he  spent  the  first 
five  years  after  leaving  Cambridge.  At  that  period  he 
•was  in  the  prime  of  youth,  and  was,  according  to  all 
accounts,  very  handsome.  His  stature  did  not  exceed 
the  middle  size,  and  was  formed  with  perfect  symmetry. 
Manso,  Marquis  of  Villa  and  the  patron  of  Tasso,  re- 
ceived Milton  at  Naples  with  much  enthusiasm,  and 
haa  left  an  epigram  in  praise  of  the  poet,  which  has  been 
thus  translated : — 

"So  perfect  thou,  in  mind,  in  form,  and  face, 
Thou'rt  not  of  English  but  Angelic  race." 

The  poem  given  above  is  from  on*  of  Lord  Lytton'a 
early  productions  entitled  Milton, 


ON  THE  MORAL  QUALITIES  OF  MILTON. 


1B1 


Dreams  he  of  Nymph  half  hid  in  sparry  care, 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  her  mooned  wave, 

Or  imaged  idol  earth  has  never  known, 

Shrined  in  his  heart,  and  there  adored  alone ; 

Or  such,  i>erchaiice,  as  all  divinely  stole, 

In  later  times,  along  his  charmed  soul ; 

When  from  his  spirit's  fire,  and  years  beguiled 

Away  in  hoarded  passion -and  the  wild 

Yet  holy  dreams  of  angel-visitings. 

Mixed  with  the  mortal's  burning  thoughts  which  leave 

Ev'n  heaven's  pure  shapes  with  ail  the  woman  warm; 

When  from  such  bright  and  blest  imaginings 

The  inspiring  seraph  bade  him  mould  the  form, 

And  show  the  world  the  wonder — of  his  Eve? 

Has  this  dull  earth  a  being  to  compare 

With  those  which  genius  kindles? — Can  the  sun 

Show  his  young  bard  a  living  shape  as  fair 

As  those  which  haunt  his  sleep? — Yea,  there  is  one 

Brighter  than  aught  which  fancy  forms  most  dear — 

Brighter  than  love's  wild  dream ;  and  lo !  behold  her 

here ! 

She  was  a  stranger  from  the  southern  sky, 
And  wandering  from  the  friends  with  whom  she  roved 
Along  those  classic  gardens — chanced  to  stray 
By  the  green  beech  tree  where  the  minstrel  lay. 

Silent — in  wonder's  speechless  trance — she  stood, 

With  lifted  hand,  and  lips  apart — and  eye 

Gazing  away  the  rich  heart,  as  sh«  viewed; 

Darker  than  night  her  locks  fell  clustering 

O'er  her  smooth  brow,  and  the  sweet  Air  just  moved 

Their  vine-like  beauty  with  his  gentle  wing; 

The  earliest  bloom  of  youth's  Idalian  rose 

Blushed  through  the  Tuscan  olive  of  her  cheok — 

(So  through  the  lightest  clouds  does  morning  break) — 

And  tliere  shone  forth  that  hallowing  soul  which  glows 

Round  beauty,  like  the  circling  light  on  high, 

Which  decks  and  makes  the  glory  of  the  sky. 

Breathless  and  motionless  she  stood  awhile, 

And  drank  deep  draughts  of  passion — then  a  smile 

Played  on  her  lip — and,  bending  down,  her  hand 

Traced  on  her  tablet  the  wild  thoughts  which  stole, 

Like  angel-strangers,  o'er  her  raptured  soul ; 

For  she  was  of  the  poet's  golden  land, 

Where  thought  finds  happiest  voice,  and  glides  along 

Into  the  silver  rivers  of  sweet  song. 

O'er  him  she  leant  enamoured,  and  her  sigh 
Breathed  near  and  nearer  to  his  silent  mouth, 
Rich  with  the  hoarded  odours  of  the  south. 
So  in  her  spiritual  divinity 
Young  Psyche  stood  the  sleeping  Eros  by ; — 
What  time  she  to  the  couch  had,  daring,  trod; 
And— by  the  glad  light— saw  her  bridegroom  God  1 
— Did  her  locks  touch  his  cheek?  or  did  he  feel 
Her  breath  like  music  o'er  his  spirit  steal? 
I  know  not — but  the  spell  of  sleep  was  broke; 
He  started — faintly  murmured— and  awoke ! 
He  woke  as  Moslems  wake  from  death,  to  see 
The  Houris  of  their  heaven  ;  and  reverently 
He  looked  the  transport  of  his  soul's  amaze : 
VOL.    I. 


And  their  eyes  met !— The  deep — deep  love  supprest 
For  years,  and  treasured  in  each  secret  breast, 
Wakened,  and  glowed,  and  centred  in  their  gaz«. 
And  their  eyes  met — one  moment  and  no  more  ! 
Nursed  in  bright  dreams  of  old  romantic  lore. 
Of  Eastern  fairies  gliding  on  the  beam, 
Or  Grecian  goddess  haunting  minstrel's  dream; 
He  rose — and  though  no  faintest  voice  might  stir 
His  lips— he  knelt  adoringly  to  her, 
And  gazed  his  worship;  Hit  the  spell  was  past. 
And  the  boy's  gesture  broke  the  breathless  charm, 
And  maiden  shame,  and  woman's  swift  alarm, 
Burningly  o'er  the  Italian's  soul  was  rushing; 
And  her  lip  trembled,  and  her  \>n  s«  beat  f;ist, 
And  with  a  thousand  new-born  feelings  blushing — 
She  turned  aw.-iy — and  with  a  step  of  air 
She  fled,  and  left  him  mute  and  spell-bound  there. 

BULWKR. 


ON  THE  MORAL  QUALITIES  OP 
MILTON. 

The  moral  character  of  Milton  was  as  strongly 
marked  as  his  intellectual,  and  it  may  be  ex- 
pressed in  one  word,  magnanimity/.  It  was  in 
harmony  with  his  poetry.  He  had  a  passionate 
love  of  the  higher,  more  commanding,  and 
majestic  virtues,  and  fed  his  youthful  mind 
with  meditations  on  the  perfection  of  a  human 
being.  In  a  letter  written  to  an  Italian  friend 
before  his  thirtieth  year,  and  translated  by 
Hayley,  we  have  this  vivid  picture  of  his 
aspirations  after  virtue. 

"As  to  other  points,  what  God  may  have 
determined  for  me,  I  know  not ;  but  this  I 
know,  that  if  he  ever  instilled  an  intense  love 
of  moral  beauty  into  the  breast  of  any  man, 
he  has  instilled  it  into  mine.  Ceres,  in  the 
fable,  pursued  not  her  daughter  with  a  greater 
keenness  of  inquiry,  than  I  day  and  night  the 
idea  of  perfection.  Hence,  wherever  I  find  a 
man  despising  the  false  estimates  of  the  vulgar, 
and  daring  to  aspire  in  sentiment,  language, 
and  conduct,  to  what  the  highest  wisdom, 
through  every  age,  has  taught  us  as  most 
excellent,  to  him  I  unite  myself  by  a  sort  of 
necessary  attachment ;  and  if  I  am  so  influenced 
by  nature  or  destiny,  that  by  no  exertion  or 
labours  of  my  own  I  may  exalt  myself  to  this 
summit  of  worth  and  honour,  yet  no  powers  of 
heaven  or  earth  will  hinder  me  from  looking 
with  reverence  and  affection  upon  those,  who 
have  thoroughly  attained  this  glory,  or  ap- 
peared engaged  in  the  successful  pursuit  of  it." 

His  Comus  was  written  in  his  twenty-sixth 
year,  and  on  reading  this  exquisite  work,  our 
admiration  is  awakened,  not  so  much  by  ob- 
11 


162 


ON  THE  MORAL  QUALITIES  OF  .MILTON. 


serving  how  the  whole  spirit  of  poetry  had 
descended  on  him  at  that  early  age,  as  by 
witnessing  how  his  whole  youthful  soul  was 
penetrated,  awed,  and  lifted  up  by  the  austere 
charms,  "the  radiant  light,"  the  invincible 
power,  the  celestial  peace  of  saintly  virtue. 
He  reverenced  moral  purity  and  elevation,  not 
only  for  its  own  sake,  but  as  the  inspirer  of 
intellect,  and  especially  of  the  higher  efforts 
of  poetry.  In  his  usual  noble  style,  he  says, 

"I  was  confirmed  in  this  opinion,  that  he 
who  would  not  be  frustrate  of  his  hope  to  write 
well  hereafter  in  laudable  things,  ought  him- 
self to  be  a  true  poem;  that  is,  a  composition 
and  pattern  of  the  best  and  honourablest 
things;  not  presuming  to  sing  of  high  praises 
of  heroic  men,  or  famous  cities,  unless  he  have 
in  himself  the  experience  and  the  practice  of 
all  that  which  is  praiseworthy." 

We  learn  from  his  works,  that  he  used  his 
multifarious  reading,  to  build  up  within  him- 
self this  reverence  for  virtue.  Ancient  history, 
the  sublime  musings  of  Plato,  and  the  heroic 
self-abandonment  of  chivalry,  joined  their  in- 
fluences with  prophets  and  apostles,  in  binding 
him  "everlastingly  in  willing  homage"  to  the 
great,  the  honourable,  and  the  lovely  in  char- 
acter. A  remarkable  passage  to  this  effect,  we 
quote  from  his  account  of  his  youth. 

"I  betook  me  among  those  lofty  fables  and 
romances,  which  recount  in  solemn  cantos,  the 
deeds  of  knighthood  founded  by  our  victorious 
kings,  and  from  hence  had  in  renown  over  all 
Christendom.  There  I  read  it  in  the  oath  of 
every  knight,  that  he  should  defend  to  the 
expense  of  his  best  blood,  or  of  his  life,  if  it  so 
befell  him,  the  honour  and  chastity  of  virgin 
or  matron ;  from  whence  even  then  I  learned 
what  a  noble  virtue  chastity  sure  must  be,  to 
the  defence  of  which  so  many  worthies,  by  such 
a  dear  adventure  of  themselves,  had  sworn:" 
...  "So  that  even  these  books,  which  to 
many  others  have  been  the  fuel  of  wantonness 
and  loose  living,  I  cannot  think  how,  unless 
by  divine  indulgence,  proved  to  me  so  many 
incitements,  as  you  have  heard,  to  the  love  and 
steadfast  observation  of  virtue." 

All  Milton's  habits  were  expressive  of  a 
refineJ  and  self-denying  character.  When 
charged  by  his  unprincipled  slanderers  with 
licentious  habits,  he  thus  gives  an  account  of 
his  morning  hours. 

"Those  morning  haunts  are  where  they 
should  be,  at  home;  not  sleeping,  or  concocting 
the  surfeits  of  an  irregular  feast,  but  up  and 
stirring,  in  winter  often  ere  the  sound  of  any 
bell  awake  men  to  labour,  or  to  devotion;  in 
summer  as  oft  with  the  bird  that  first  rouses, 


or  not  much  tardier,  to  read  good  authors,  or 
cause  them  to  be  read,  till  the  attention  be 
weary,  or  memory  have  its  full  fraught :  then 
with  usual  and  generous  labours  preserving  the 
body's  health  and  hardiness  to  render  light- 
some, clear,  and  not  lumpish  obedience  to  the 
mind,  to  the  cause  of  religion,  and  our  country's 
liberty,  when  it  shall  require  firm  hearts  in 
sound  bodies  to  stand  and  cover  their  stations, 
rather  than  to  see  the  ruin  of  our  protestation, 
and  the  enforcement  of  a  slavish  life. " 

We  have  enlarged  on  the  strictness  and  lofti- 
ness of  Milton's  virtue,  not  only  from  our 
interest  in  the  subject,  but  that  we  may  put  to 
shame  and  silence  those  men  who  make  genius 
an  apology  for  vice,  and  take  the  sacred  fire, 
kindled  by  God  within  them,  to  inflame  men's 
passions,  and  to  minister  to  a  vile  sensuality. 

We  see  Milton's  greatness  of  mind,  in  hia 
fervent  and  constant  attachment  to  liberty. 
Freedom  in  all  its  forms  and  branches  was 
dear  to  him,  but  especially  freedom  of  thought 
and  speech,  of  conscience  and  worship,  freedom 
to  seek,  profess,  and  propagate  truth.  The 
liberty  of  ordinary  politicians,  which  protects 
men's  outward  rights,  and  removes  restraints 
to  the  pursuit  of  property  and  outward  good, 
fell  very  short  of  that  for  which  Milton  lived 
and  was  ready  to  die.  The  tyranny  which  he 
hated  most  was  that  which  broke  the  intellectual 
and  moral  power  of  the  community.  The 
worst  feature  of  the  institutions  which  he 
assailed,  was,  that  they  fettered  the  mind. 
He  felt  within  himself,  that  the  human  mind 
had  a  principle  of  perpetual  growth,  that  it 
was  essentially  diffusive  and  made  for  progress, 
and  he  wished  every  chain  broken,  that  it 
might  run  the  race  of  truth  and  virtue  with 
increasing  ardour  and  success.  This  attach- 
ment to  a  spiritual  and  refined  freedom,  which 
never  forsook  him  in  the  hottest  controversies, 
contributed  greatly  to  protect  his  genius, 
imagination,  taste,  and  sensibility,  from  the 
withering  and  polluting  influences  of  public 
station,  and  of  the  rage  of  parties.  It  threw 
a  hue  of  poetry  over  politics,  and  gave  a 
sublime  reference  to  his  service  of  the  common- 
wealth. The  fact  that  Milton,  in  that  stormy 
day,  and  amidst  the  trials  of  public  office,  kept 
his  high  faculties  undepraved,  was  a  proof  of 
no  common  greatness.  Politics,  however  they 
make  the  intellect  active,  sagacious,  and  in- 
ventive, within  a  certain  sphere,  generally 
extinguish  its  thirst  for  universal  truth,  para- 
lyze sentiment  and  imagination,  corrupt  the 
simplicity  of  the  mind,  destroy  that  confidence 
in  human  virtue,  which  lies  at  the  foundation 
of  philanthropy  and  generous  sacrifices,  and 


ON  THE  MORAL  QUALITIES  OF  MILTON. 


163 


end  in  cold  and  prudent  selfishness.  Milton 
passed  through  a  revolution  which,  in  its  last 
stages  and  issue,  was  peculiarly  fitted  to  damp 
enthusiasm,  to  scatter  the  visions  of  hope,  and 
to  infuse  doubts  of  the  reality  of  virtuous 
principle;  and  yet  the  ardour,  and  moral  feel- 
ing, and  enthusiasm  of  his  youth  came  forth 
unhurt,  and  even  exalted,  from  the  trial. 

Before  quitting  the  subject  of  Milton's 
devotion  to  liberty,  it  ought  to  be  recorded, 
that  he  wrote  his  celebrated  Defence  of  the 
People  of  England,  after  being  distinctly 
forewarned  by  his  physicians  that  the  effect 
of  this  exertion  would  be  the  utter  loss  of  sight. 
His  reference  to  this  part  of  his  history,  in  a 
short  poetical  effusion,  is  too  characteristic  to 
be  withheld.  It  is  inscribed  to  Cyriac  Skinner, 
the  friend  to  whom  he  appears  to  have  confided 
his  lately  discovered  Treatise  on  Christian 
Doctrine. " 

Cyriac.  tiiis  three-years  day,  these  eyes,  though  clear 

To  outward  view,  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 

Bereft  of  light  their  seeing  have  forgot, 

Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appe;*r 
Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star  throughout  the  year, 

Or  man,  or  woman.     Yet  I  argue  not 

Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 

Of  heart  or  hope ;  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Riyht  onward.     What  supports  me,  dost  thou  ask  ? 

The  conscience,  friend,  to  have  lost  them  overplied 

In  liberty's  defence,  my  noble  task, 
Of  which  all  Europe  rings  from  side  to  side. 

This  thought  might  lead  me  through  the  world's  vain 
musk. 

Content,  though  blind,  had  I  no  better  guide. 

Sonnet  xxii. 

We  see  Milton's  magnanimity  in  the  circum- 
stances under  which  Paradise  Lost  was  written. 
It  was  not  in  prosperity,  in  honour,  and  amidst 
triumphs,  but  in  disappointment,  desertion, 
and  in  what  the  world  calls  disgrace,  that  he 
composed  that  work.  The  cause  with  which 
he  had  identified  himself  had  failed.  His 
friends  were  scattered ;  liberty  was  trodden 
under  foot ;  and  her  devoted  champion  was  a 
by-word  among  the  triumphant  royalists.  But 
it  is  the  prerogative  of  true  greatness,  to  glorify 
itself  in  adversity,  and  to  meditate  and  execute 
vast  enterprises  in  defeat.  Milton,  fallen  in 
outward  condition,  afflicted  with  blindness, 
disappointed  in  his  best  hopes,  applied  himself 
with  characteristic  energy  to  the  sublimest 
achievement  of  intellect,  solacing  himself  with 
great  thoughts,  with  splendid  creations,  and 
with  a  prophetic  confidence,  that  however 
neglected  in  his  own  age,  he  was  framing  in 
his  works  a  bond  of  union  and  fellowship  with 
the  illustrious  spirits  of  a  brighter  day.  We 


delight  to  contemplate  him  in  his  retreat  and 
last  years.  To  the  passing  spectator,  he  seemed 
fallen  and  forsaken,  and  his  blindness  was  re- 
proached as  a  judgment  from  God.  But  though 
sightless,  he  lived  in  light.  His  inward  eyo 
ranged  through  universal  nature,  and  his 
imagination  shed  on  it  brighter  beams  than 
the  sun.  Heaven,  and  hell,  and  paradise  were 
open  to  him.  He  visited  'past  ages,  and 
gathered  round  him  ancient  sages  and  heroes, 
prophets  and  apostles,  brave  knights  and  gifted 
bards.  As  he  looked  forward,  ages  of  liberty 
dawned  and  rose  to  his  view,  and  he  felt  that 
he  was  about  to  bequeath  to  them  an  inheri- 
tance of  genius  "which  would  not  fadeaway," 
and  was  to  live  in  the  memory,  reverence,  and 
love  of  remotest  generations. 

We  have  enlarged  on  Milton's  character,  not 
only  from  the  pleasure  of  paying  that  sacred 
debt  which  the  mind  owes  to  him  who  has 
quickened  and  delighted  it,  but  from  an  appre- 
hension that  Milton  has  not  yet  reaped  his 
due  harvest  of  esteem  and  veneration.  The 
envious  mists,  which  the  prejudices  and  bigotry 
of  Johnson  spread  over  his  bright  name,  are 
not  yet  wholly  scattered,  though  fast  passing 
away.  We  wish  not  to  disparage  Johnson. 
We  could  find  no  pleasure  in  sacrificing  one 
great  man  to  the  manes  of  another.  But  we 
owe  it  to  Milton  and  to  other  illustrious  names, 
to  say,  that  Johnson  has  failed  of  the  highest 
end  of  biography,  which  is  to  give  immortality 
to  virtue,  and  to  call  forth  fervent  admiration 
towards  those  who  have  shed  splendour  on  past 
ages.  We  acquit  Johnson,  however,  of  inten- 
tional misrepresentation.  He  did  not  and  could 
not  appreciate  Milton.  We  doubt  whether 
two  other  minds,  having  so  little  in  common 
as  those  of  which  we  are  now  speaking,  can  be 
found  in  the  higher  walks  of  literature.  John- 
son was  great  in  his  own  sphere,  but  that 
sphere  was  comparatively  "of  the  earth;" 
whilst  Milton's  was  only  inferior  to  that  of 
angels.  It  was  customary  in  the  day  of  John- 
son's glory  to  call  him  a  giant,  to  class  him 
with  a  mighty  but  still  an  earth-born  race. 
Milton  we  should  rank  among  seraphs.  John- 
son's mind  acted  chiefly  on  man's  actual  con- 
dition, on  the  realities  of  life,  on  the  springs 
of  human  action,  on  the  passions  which  new 
agitate  society,  and  he  seems  hardly  to  have 
dreamed  of  a  higher  state  of  the  human  mind 
than  was  then  exhibited.  Milton,  on  the  other 
hand,  burned  with  a  deep  yet  calm  love  of  moral 
grandeur  and  celestial  purity.  He  thought 
not  so  much  of  what  man  is,  as  of  what  he 
might  become.  His  own  mind  was  a  revela- 
tion to  him  of  a  higher  condition  of  humanity, 


164 


SONG. 


and  to  promote  this  he  thirsted  and  toiled  for 
freedom,  as  the  element  for  the  growth  and 
improvement  of  his  nature.  In  religion,  John- 
son was  gloomy  and  inclined  to  superstition, 
and  on  the  subject  of  government  leaned  towards 
absolute  power;  and  the  idea  of  reforming 
either,  never  entered  his  mind  but  to  disturb 
and  provoke  it.  The  church  and  the  civil 
polity  under  which  he  lived  seemed  to  him 
perfect,  unless  he  may  have  thought  that  the 
former  would  be  improved  by  a  larger  infusion 
of  Romish  rites  and  doctrines,  and  the  latter 
by  an  enlargement  of  the  royal  prerogative. 
Hence,  a  tame  acquiescence  in  the  present 
forms  of  religion  and  government  marks  his 
works.  Hence  we  find  so  little  in  his  writings 
which  is  electric  and  soul-kindling,  and  which 
gives  the  reader  a  consciousness  of  being  made 
for  a  state  of  loftier  thought  and  feeling  than 
the  present.  Milton's  whole  soul,  on  the  con- 
trary, revolted  against  the  maxims  of  legiti- 
macy, hereditary  faith,  and  servile  reverence 
for  established  power.  He  could  not  brook  the 
bondage  to  which  men  had  bowed  for  ages. 
"  Reformation  "  was  the  first  word  of  public 
warning  which  broke  from  his  youthful  lips, 
and  the  hope  of  it  was  a  fire  in  his  aged  breast. 
The  difference  between  Milton  and  Johnson 
may  be  traced  not  only  in  these  great  features 
of  mind,  but  in  their  whole  characters.  Milton 
was  refined  and  spiritual  in  his  habits,  tem- 
perate almost  to  abstemiousness,  and  refreshed 
himself  after  intellectual  effort  by  music. 
Johnson  inclined  to  more  sensual  delights. 
Milton  was  exquisitely  alive  to  theoutward  crea- 
tion, to  sounds,  motions,  and  forms,  to  natural 
beauty  and  grandeur.  Johnson,  through  de- 
fect of  physical  organization,  if  not  through 
deeper  deficiency,  had  little  susceptibility  of 
these  pure  and  delicate  pleasures,  and  would 
not  have  exchanged  the  Strand  for  the  vale  of 
Tempe  or  the  gardens  of  the  Hesperides.  How- 
could  Johnson  be  just  to  Milton  '  The  com- 
parison, which  we  have  instituted,  hascompelled 
us  to  notice  Johnson's  defects.  But  we  trust 
we  are  not  blind  to  his  merits.  His  stately 
march,  his  pomp  and  power  of  language,  his 
strength  of  thought,  his  reverence  for  virtue 
and  religion,  his  vigorous  logic,  his  practical 
wisdom,  his  insight  into  the  springs  of  human 
action,  and  the  solemn  pathos  which  occa- 
sionally pervades  his  descriptions  of  life  and 
his  references  to  his  own  history,  command 
our  willing  admiration.  That  he  wanted  en- 
thusiasm, and  creative  imagination,  and  lofty 
sentiment,  was  not  his  fault.  We  do  not  blame 
him  for  not  being  Milton.  We  love  intellec- 
tual power  in  all  its  forms,  and  delight  in  the 


variety  of  mind.  We  blame  him  only  that  hia 
passions,  prejudices,  and  bigotry  engaged  him 
in  the  unworthy  task  of  obscuring  the  brighter 
glory  of  one  of  the  most  gifted  and  virtuous 
men.  We  would  even  treat  what  we  deem  the 
faults  of  Johnson  with  a  tenderness  approach- 
ing respect ;  for  they  were  results,  to  a  degree 
which  man  cannot  estimate,  of  a  diseased,  irri- 
table, nervous,  unhappy  physical  temperament, 
and  belonged  to  the  body  more  than  to  the 
mind.  We  only  ask  the  friends  of  genius  not 
to  put  their  faith  in  Johnson's  delineations  of 
it.  His  biographical  works  are  tinged  with 
his  notoriously  strong  prejudices,  and  of  all 
his  Lives,  we  hold  that  of  Milton  to  be  the 
most  apocryphal. 

L>K.  CHASMNU. 


SONG. 
FBOM  GOETHE'S  FAUST. 

[Lord  Francis  Leveson  Gower,  afterwards  Lord 
Francis  Egerton,  bom  1800,  died  October,  1S57.  He 
was  the  second  son  of  the  first  Duke  of  Sutherland. 
Possessed  of  much  literary  ability,  he  obtained  consider- 
able reputation  by  hia  translation  of  "  Faust."] 

My  peace  is  vauish'd, 

My  heart  is  sore ; 
I  shall  find  it  never, 

And  never  more ! 

Where  he  is  not 

Is  like  a  tomb ; 
And  the  sunniest  spot 

Is  turned  to  gloom. 

My  aching  head 
Will  burst  with  pain — 

And  the  sense  has  fled 
My  wilder'd  brain. 

I  look  through  the  glass 
Till  my  eyes  are  dim ; 

The  threshold  I  pass 
Alone  for  him. 

His  lofty  step, 

And  his  forehead  high, 

His  winning  smile, 
And  his  beaming  eye ! 

His  fond  caress, 

So  rich  in  bliss ! 
His  hand  to  press — 

And  ah !  his  kiss ! — 

My  peace  is  vanish'd, 

My  heart  is  sore ; 
I  shall  find  it  never, 

And  never  more! 


STANZAS. 


165 


ON   IMPUDENCE  AND  MODESTY. 

I  have  always  been  of  opinion,  that  the 
complaints  against  Providence  have  been  ill- 
grounded,  and  that  the  good  or  bad  qualities  of 
men  are  the  causes  of  their  good  or  bad  fortune, 
more  than  what  is  generally  imagined.  There 
are,  no  doubt,  instances  to  the  contrary,  and 
pretty  numerous  ones  too;  but  few  in  comparison 
of  the  instances  we  have  of  a  right  distribution 
of  prosperity  and  adversity;  nor,  indeed,  could 
it  be  otherwise,  from  the  common  course  of 
human  affairs.  To  be  endowed  with  a  bene- 
volent disposition,  and  to  love  others,  will  al- 
most infallibly  procure  love  and  esteem;  which 
is  the  chief  circumstance  in  life,  and  facilitates 
every  enterprise  and  undertaking;  besides  the 
satisfaction  that  immediately  results  from  it. 
The  case  is  much  the  same  with  the  other 
virtues.  Prosperity  is  naturally,  though  not 
necessarily,  attached  to  virtue  and  merit;  and 
adversity,  in  like  manner,  to  vice  and  folly. 

I  must,  however,  confess  that  this  rule 
admits  of  an  exemption  with  regard  to  one 
moral  quality,  and  that  modesty  has  a  natural 
tendency  to  conceal  a  man's  talents,  as  im- 
pudence displays  them  to  the  utmost,  and  has 
been  the  only  cause  why  many  have  risen  in 
the  world,  under  all  the  disadvantages  of  low 
birth  and  little  merit.  Such  indolence  and 
incapacity  is  there  in  the  bulk  of  mankind, 
that  they  are  apt  to  receive  a  man  for  whatever 
he  has  a  mind  to  put  himself  off  for;  and  admit 
his  overbearing  airs  as  a  proof  of  that  merit 
which  he  assumes  to  himself.  A  decent  assur- 
ance seems  to  be  the  natural  attendant  of  virtue ; 
and  few  men  can  distinguish  impudence  from 
it;  as,  on  the  other  hand,  diffidence  being  the 
natural  remit  of  vice  and  folly,  has  drawn 
disgrace  upon  modesty,  which,  in  outward 
appearance,  so  nearly  resembles  it. 

As  impudence,  though  really  a  vice,  has  the 
same  effects  upon  a  man's  fortune  as  if  it 
were  a  virtue;  so  we  may  observe,  that  it  is 
almost  as  difficult  to  be  attained,  and  is,  in 
that  respect,  distinguished  from  all  the  other 
vices,  which  are  acquired  with  littie  pains,  and 
continually  increase  upon  indulgence.  Many 
a  man,  being  sensible  that  modesty  is  extremely 
prejudicial  to  him  in  making  his  fortune,  has 
resolved  to  be  impudent,  and  to  put  a  bold  face 
upon  the  matter:  but  it  is  observable  that  such 
people  have  seldom  succeeded  in  the  attempt, 
but  have  been  obliged  to  relapse  into  their 
primitive  modesty.  Nothing  carries  a  man 
through  the  world  like  a  true,  genuine,  natural 


impudence.  Its  counterfeit  is  good  for  nothing, 
nor  can  ever  support  itself.  In  any  other 
attempt,  whatever  faults  a  man  commits,  and 
is  sensible  of,  he  is  so  much  nearer  his  end, 
but,  when  he  endeavours  at  impudence,  if  he 
ever  failed  in  the  attempt,  the  remembrante  of 
it  will  make  him  blush,  and  will  infallibly 
disconcert  him;  after  which,  every  blush  is  a 
cause  for  new  blushes,  till  he  be  found  out  to 
be  an  arrant  cheat,  and  a  vain  pretender  to 
impudence. 

If  any  thing  can  give  a  modest  man  more  assur- 
ance, it  must  be  some  advantages  of  fortune, 
which  chance  procures  to  h  im.  Riches  natural  ly 
gain  a  man  a  favourable  reception  in  the  world, 
and  give  merit  a  double  lustre,  when  a  person  is 
endowed  with  it;  and  supply  its  place,  in  a 
great  measure,  when  it  is  absent.  'Tis  won- 
derful to  observe  what  airs  of  superiority  fools 
and  knaves  with  large  possessions  give  them- 
selves above  men  of  the  greatest  merit  in 
poverty.  Nor  do  the  men  of  merit  make  any 
strong  opposition  to  these  usurpations ,  or  rather 
seem  to  favour  them  by  the  modesty  of  their 
behaviour.  Their  good  sense  and  experience 
make  them  diffident  of  their  judgment,  and 
cause  them  to  examine  everything  with  the 
greatest  accuracy;  as,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
delicacy  of  their  sentiments  makes  them  tim- 
orous lest  they  commit  faults,  and  lose,  in  the 
practice  of  the  world,  that  integrity  of  virtue, 
so  to  speak,  of  which  they  are  so  jealous.  To 
make  wisdom  agree  with  confidence  is  as  diffi- 
cult as  to  reconcile  vice  to  modesty. 

DAVID  HUME. 


STANZAS. 

[Mrs.  Anne  Radcliffe,  bom  in  London,  9th  July, 
17(54  ;  died  7th  February,  1823.  A  very  popular  romance 
writer.  Of  her  many  works,  Tlu  MygUi-ie.s  of  Udolpho 
is  most  prominent.] 

On  the  bright  margin  of  Italia's  shore, 

Beneath  the  glance  of  summer-noon,  we  stray, 

And,  indolently  happy,  ask  no  more 

Than  cooling  airs  that  o'er  the  ocean  play. 

And  watch  the  bark  that  on  the  busy  strand 
Wash'd  by  the  sparkling  tide  awaits  the  gale, 

Till,  high  among  the  shrouds,  the  sailor  band 
Gallantly  shout,  and  raise  the  swelling  sail. 

On  the  broad  deck  a  various  group  recline, 
Touch'd  with  the  moonlight,  yet  half  hid  in 
shade ; 


166 


THE  GRAY  HAIR 


Who,  silent,  watch  the  bark  the  coast  resign, 
The  pharos  lessen,  and  the  mountains  fade. 

We,  indolently  happy,  watch  alone 

The  wandering  airs  that  o'er  the  ocean  stray, 
To  bring  some  sad  Venetian  sonnet's  tone 

From  that  lone  vessel  floating  far  away. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 

The  lark  lias  sung  his  carol  in  the  sky ; 

The  bees  have  liuiume*!  their  noontide  lullaby; 

Still  in  the  vale  the  village-bells  ring  round, 

Still  in  Llewellyn  hall  the  jests  resound  ; 

For  now  the  caudle-cup  is  circling  there, 

Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their  prayer, 

And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire 

The  Labe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire. 

A  few  short  years — and  then  these  sounds  shall  hail 
The  day  again,  and  gladness  fill  the  vale ; 
So  soon  the  child  a  youth,  the  youth  a  man, 
Eager  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran. 
Then  the  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sirloin, 
The  ale,  now  brewed,  in  floods  of  amber  shine. 
And,  basking  in  the  chimney's  ample  blaze, 
'Mid  many  a  t.ile  told  of  his  boyish  days. 
The  nur.se  shall  cry,  of  all  her  ills  beguiled, 
'"Twas  ou  these  knees  he  sate  so  oft  and  smiled." 

And  soon  again  shall  music  swell  the  breeze ; 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the  trees 
Vestures  of  nuptial  white ;  and  hymns  be  sung, 
And  violets  scattered  round ;  and  old  and  young, 
In  every  cottage  porch  with  garlands  green. 
Stand  still  to  gaze,  and,  gazing,  bless  the  scene; 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side 
Moris  in  her  virgin  veil  the  gentle  bride. 

And  once,  alas  !  nor  in  a  distant  hour, 
Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower; 
When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  weeds  are  seen, 
And  weeping's  heard  where  only  joy  has  been  ; 
When  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more. 
He  rests  in  holy  earth  with  them  that  went  before. 

And  such  is  Human  Life ; — so  gliding  on, 
It  glimmers  like  a  meteor,  and  is  gone ! 
Yet  is  the  tale,  brief  though  it  be,  as  strange, 
As  full  methinks  of  wild  and  wondrous  change, 
As  any  that  the  wandering  tribes  require. 
Stretched  in  the  desert  round  their  evening  fire; 
As  any  sung  of  old  in  hall  or  bower 
To  minstrel  harps  at  midnight's  witching  hour! 

BuOKHd. 


THE    GRAY    HAIR. 

[Alaric  Alexander  Watts,  born  in  London,  1795; 
died  5th  April,  1864.  As  the  poet  of  domestic  life  he 
is  widely  known  and  appreciated.  His  first  collection 
of  poems  appeared  in  18'J2,  and  from  that  date  he  be- 
came busily  occupied  in  journalism,  first  as  editor  of 
the  Letdt  Intelligencer,  next  of  the  Manchester  Courier, 
and  subsequently  as  the  projector  of  the  United  Service 
£azMet  which  he  edited  for  ten  years.  In  1851  a  com- 
plete collection  of  his  poetical  works  was  issued  under 
the  title  of  Lyrics  of  tke  Heart.  In  1853  government 
provided  him  with  a  pension  of  £100  a  year.] 

•Come,  let  me  pluck  that  silver  hair 
Which  'mid  thy  clustering  curls  I  see: 

The  withering  type  of  time  or  care 
Hath  nothing,  sure,  to  do  with  thee  I 

Years  have  not  yet  impair'd  the  grace 

That  charmed  me  once,  that  chains  me  now; 

And  Envy's  self,  love,  cannot  trace 
One  wrinkle  on  thy  placid  brow ! 

Thy  features  have  not  lost  the  bloom 

That  brighten'd  them  when  first  we  met ; 

No  !•-  rays  of  softest  light  illume 
Thy  unambitious  beauty  yet ! 

And  if  the  passing  clouds  of  care 

Have  cast  their  shadows  o'er  thy  face, 

They  have  but  left,  triumphant,  there 
A  holier  charm — more  witching  grace. 

And  if  thy  voice  hath  sunk  a  tone, 
And  sounds  more  sadly  than  of  yore, 

It  hath  a  sweetness  all  its  own, 
Methiuks  I  never  mark'd  before ! 

Thra,  young  and  fair,  and  happy  too — 

If  bliss  indeed  may  here  be  won — 
In  spite  of  all  that  Care  can  do ; 

In  spite  of  all  that  Time  hath  done ; 

Is  yon  white  hair  a  boon  of  love, 

To  thee  in  mildest  mercy  given? 
A  sign,  a  token  from  above, 

To  lead  thy  thoughts  from  earth  to  heaven? 

To  speak  to  thee  of  life's  decay ; 

Of  beauty  hastening  to  the  tomb; 
Of  hopes  that  cannot  fade  away ; 

Of  joys  that  never  lose  their  bloom? 

Or  springs  the  line  of  timeless  snow 
With  those  dark  glossy  locks  entwined, 

'Mid  Youth's  and  Beauty's  morning  glow 
To  emblem  thy  maturer  mind! 

It  does— it  does  : — then  let  it  stay ; 

Even  Wisdom's  self  were  welcome  now; 
Who'd  wish  her  soberer  tints  away, 

When  thus  they  beam  from  beauty's  brow? 


OUT  WITH  THE  HERRING  FISHERS. 


157 


OUT  WITH   THE  HERRING  FISHERS. 


[Hugh  Miller,  born  in  Cromarty,  12th  October,  1302; 
died  in  Edinburgh,  2lth  December,  1S06.  He  was  for 
some  time  a  stone-mason,  and  it  was  whilst  working 
in  this  capacity  that  he  obtained  the  impressions  and 
experiences  of  the  science  of  geology,  which  afterwards 
yielded  such  great  results.  Next  he  became  clerk  in 
the  bank  of  his  native  town,  and  about  this  time  he 
published  a  small  volume  of  poems.  He  berime  a  fre- 
quent contributor  to  the  Juttrnent  Cuuri  r,  and  in  that 
journal  his  important ''Letters  on  the  Herring  Fishery" 
were  fitst  published.  From  these  letters  we  quote  the 
following  sketch  of  a  night's  adventures  with  the  her- 
ring fishers.  At  the  period  of  the  Disruption,  wheu 
the  Free  Church  party  established  the  Witness,  a  semi- 
weekly  newspaper,  Mr.  Miller  was  appointed  its  editor, 
and  continued  to  hold  that  post  until  the  date  of  his 
melancholy  death.  Whilst  performing  all  the  dutiea 
)f  his  editorial  post  he  wrote  numerous  essays,  sketches, 
and  tales ;  and  also  produced  the  works  by  which  hia 
name  will  be  best  known  to  posterity — T/ie  Old  Red 
SandntQHe,  Fuot^rlnts  of  the  Creator,  and  T/u  Testimony 
of  (lie  Jiockg.  Sir  David  Brewster  says  of  him,  "  With 
the  exception  of  Burns,  the  uneducated  genius  which 
lias  done  honour  to  Scotland  during  the  List  century 
has  never  displayed  that  mental  refinement  and  classical 
taste  and  intellectual  energy  wliich  mark  all  the  writ- 
ings of  our  author  "  An  exhaustive  biography  of  Mr. 
Miller,  by  Peter  Bayne,  has  been  recently  published; 
and  an  excellent  complete  edition  of  his  works  has  been 
issued  by  \Y.  P.  Ximnio,  Edinburgh.] 

In  the  latter  end  of  August,  1819,  I  went 
out  to  the  fishing  then  prosecuted  on  Guilliam 
in  a  Cromarty  boat.  The  evening  was  remark- 
ably pleasant.  A  low  breeze  from  the  west 
scarcely  ruffled  the  surface  of  the  frith,  which 
was  varied  in  every  direction  by  unequal  stripes 
and  patches  of  a  dead  calmness.  The  bay  of 
Cromarty,  burnished  by  the  rays  of  the  declin- 
ing sun  until  it  glowed  like  a  sheet  of  molten 
fire,  lay  behind,  winding  in  all  its  beauty  be- 
neath purple  hills  and  jutting  headlands; 
while  before  stretched  the  wide  extent  of  the 
Moray  Frith,  speckled  with  fleets  of  boats  which 
had  lately  left  their  several  ports,  and  were 
now  all  sailing  in  one  direction.  The  point 
to  which  they  were  bound  was  the  bank  of 
Guilliam,  which,  seen  from  betwixt  the  Sutors, 
seemed  to  verge  on  the  faint  blue  line  of  the 
horizon;  and  the  fleets  which  had  already 
arrived  on  it  had,  to  the  naked  eye,  the  appear- 
ance of  a  little  rough -edged  cloud  resting  on 
the  water.  As  we  advanced,  this  cloud  of 
boats  grew  larger  and  darker;  and  soon  after 
sunset,  when  the  bank  was  scarcely  a  mile 
distant,  it  assumed  the  appearance  of  a  thick 
leafless  wood  covering  a  low  brown  island. 


The  tide,  before  we  left  the  shore,  had  risen 
high  on  the  beach,  and  was  now  beginning  to 
recede.  Aware  of  this,  we  lowered  sail  several 
hundred  yards  to  the  south  t>f  the  fishing 
ground;  and  after  determining  the  point  from 
whence  the  course  of  the  current  would  drift 
us  direct  over  the  bank,  we  took  down  the  mast, 
cleared  the  hinder  part  of  the  boat,  and  began 
to  cast  out  the  nets.  Before  the  Inlaw  appeared 
in  the  line  of  the  Gaelic  chapel  (the  landmark 
by  which  the  southernmost  extremity  of 
Guilliam  is  ascertained),  the  whole  drift  was 
thrown  overboard  and  made  fast  to  the  swing. 
Night  came  on.  The  sky  assumed  a  dead  and 
leaden  hue.  A  low  dull  mist  roughened  the 
outline  of  the  distant  hills,  and  in  some  places 
blotted  them  out  from  the  landscape.  The 
faint  breeze  that  had  hitherto  scarcely  been 
felt  now  roughened  the  water,  which  was  of  a 
dark  blue  colour,  approaching  to  black.  The 
sounds  which  predominated  were  in  unison 
with  the  scene.  The  almost  measured  dash  of 
the  waves  against  the  sides  of  the  boat  and  the 
faint  rustle  of  the  breeze  were  incessant;  while 
the  low  dull  moan  of  the  surf  breaking  on  the 
distant  beach,  and  the  short  sudden  cry  of  an 
aquatic  fowl  of  the  diving  species,  occasionally 
mingled  with  the  sweet  though  rather  monoto- 
nous notes  of  a  Gaelic  song.  "It's  ane  o'  the 
Gairloch  fishermen,"  said  our  skipper;  "puir 
folk,  they're  aye  singin'  an'  thinkin'  o'  the 
Hielands." 

Our  boat,  as  the  tides  were  not  powerful, 
drifted  slowly  over  the  bank.  The  buoys 
stretched  out  from  the  bows  in  an  unbroken 
line.  There  was  no  sign  of  fish,  and  the  boat- 
men, after  spreading  the  sail  over  the  beams, 
laid  themselves  down  on  it.  The  scene  was 
at  the  time  so  new  to  me,  and,  though  of  a 
somewhat  melancholy  cast,  so  pleasing,  that  I 
stayed  up.  A  singular  appearance  attracted 
my  notice.  "How,"  said  I  to  one  of  the  boat- 
men, who  a  moment  before  had  made  me  -an 
offer  of  his  greatcoat, — "how  do  you  account 
for  that  calm  silvery  spot  on  the  water,  which 
moves  at  such  a  rate  in  the  line  of  our  drift?" 
He  started  up.  A  moment  after  he  called  on 
the  others  to  rise,  and  then  replied:  "That 
moving  speck  of  calm  water  covers  a  shoal  of 
herrings.  If  it  advances  a  hundred  yards 
farther  in  that  direction,  we  shall  have  some 
employment  for  you. "  This  piece  of  informa- 
tion made  me  regard  the  little  patch,  which, 
from  the  light  it  caught,  and  the  blackness  of 
the  surrounding  water,  seemed  a  bright  opening 
in  a  dark  sky,  with  considerable  interest.  It 
moved  onward  with  increased  velocity.  It 
came  in  contact  with  the  line  of  the  drift,  and 


103 


OUT   WITH   THE  HERRING  FISHERS. 


three  of  the  buoys  immediately  sunk.  A  few 
minutes  were  suffered  to  elapse,  and  we  then 
commenced  hauling.  The  two  strongest  of  the 
crew,  as  is  usual,  were  stationed  at  the  cork, 
the  two  others  at  the  ground  baulk.  My  assist- 
ance, which  I  readily  tendered,  was  pronounced 
unnecessary,  so  I  hung  over  the  gunwale  watch- 
ing the  nets  as  they  approached  the  side  of  the 
boat.  The  three  first,  from  the  phosphoric 
light  of  the  water,  appeared  as  if  bursting  into 
flames  of  a  pale  green  colour.  The  fourth  was 
still  brighter,  and  glittered  through  the  waves 
while  it  was  yet  several  fathoms  away,  remind- 
ing me  of  an  intensely  bright  sheet  of  the 
aurora  borealis.  As  it  approached  the  side, 
the  pale  green  of  the  phosphoric  matter  ap- 
peared as  if  mingled  with  large  flakes  of  snow. 
It  contained  a  body  of  fish.  "A  white  horse! 
a  white  horse!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  men  at 
the  cork  baulk;  "lend  us  a  haul."  I  immedi- 
ately sprung  aft,  laid  hold  on  the  rope,  and 
commenced  hauling.  In  somewhat  less  than 
half  an  hour  we  had  all  the  nets  on  board,  and 
rather  more  than  twelve  barrels  of  herrings. 

The  night  had  now  become  so  dark,  that  we 
could  scarcely  discern  the  boats  which  lay 
within  gunshot  of  our  own ;  and  we  had  no 
means  of  ascertaining  the  position  of  the  bank 
except  by  sounding.  The  lead  was  cast,  and 
soon  after  the  nets  shot  a  second  time.  The 
skipper's  bottle  was  next  produced,  and  a  dram 
of  whisky  sent  round  in  a  tin  measure  contain- 
ing nearly  a  gill.  AVe  then  folded  down  the 
sail,  which  had  been  rolled  up  to  make  way  for 
the  herrings,  and  were  soon  fast  asleep. 

Ten  years  have  elapsed  since  I  laid  myself 
down  on  this  couch,  and  I  was  not  then  so  ac- 
customed to  a  rough  bed  as  I  am  now,  when  I 
can  look  back  on  my  wanderings  as  a  journey- 
man mason  over  a  considerable  part  of  both  the 
Lowlands  and  Highlands  of  Scotland.  About 
midnight  I  awoke  quite  chill,  and  all  over  sore 
with  the  hard  beams  and  sharp  rivets  of  the 
boat.  Well,  thought  I,  this  is  the  tax  I  pay 
for  my  curiosity.  I  rose  and  crept  softly  over 
the  sail  to  the  bows,  where  I  stood,  and  where, 
in  the  singular  beauty  of  the  scene,  which  was 
of  a  character  as  different  from  that  I  had 
lately  witnessed  as  is  possible  to  conceive,  I 
soon  lost  all  sense  of  every  feeling  that  was 
not  pleasure.  The  breeze  had  died  into  a  per- 
fect calm.  The  heavens  were  glowing  with 
stars,  and  the  sea,  from  the  smoothness  of  the 
surface,  appeared  a  second  sky,  as  bright  and 
starry  as  the  other,  but  with  this  difference, 
that  all  its  stars  appeared  comets.  There 
seemed  no  line  of  division  at  the  horizon,  which 
rendered  the  illusion  more  striking.  The 


distant  hills  appeared  a  chain  of  dark  thundery 
clouds  sleeping  in  the  heavens.  In  short,  the 
scene  was  one  of  the  strangest  I  ever  witnessed  ; 
and  the  thoughts  and  imaginations  which  it 
suggested  were  of  a  character  as  singular.  I 
looked  at  the  boat  as  it  appeared  in  the  dim 
light  of  midnight,  a  dark  irregularly-shaped 
mass;  I  gazed  on  the  sky  of  stars  above,  and 
the  sky  of  comets  below,  and  imagined  myself 
in  the  centre  of  space,  far  removed  from  the 
earth  and  every  other  world, — the  solitary  in- 
habitant of  a  planetary  fragment.  This  al- 
lusion, too  romantic  to  be  lasting,  was  dissi- 
pated by  an  incident  which  convinced  me  that 
I  had  not  yet  left  the  world.  A  crew  of  south- 
shore  fishermen,  either  by  accident  or  design, 
had  shot  their  nets  right  across  those  of  another 
boat,  and,  in  disentangling  them,  a  quarrel 
ensued.  Our  boat  lay  more  than  half  a  mile 
from  the  scene  of  contention,  bulj  I  could  hear 
without  being  particularly  attentive  that  on 
the  one  side  there  were  terrible  threats  of  vio- 
lence immediate  and  bloody,  and  on  the  other, 
threats  of  the  still  more  terrible  pains  and 
penalties  of  the  law.  In  a  few  minutes,  how- 
ever, the  entangled  nets  were  freed,  and  the 
roar  of  altercation  gradually  sunk  into  a  silence 
as  dead  as  that  which  had  preceded  it. 

An  hour  before  sunrise,  I  was  somewhat 
disheartened  to  find  the  view  on  every  side 
bounded  by  a  dense  low  bank  of  fog,  which 
hung  over  the  water,  while  the  central  firma- 
ment remained  blue  and  cloudless.  The  neigh- 
bouring boats  appeared  through  the  mist  huge 
misshapen  things,  manned  by  giants.  We 
commenced  hauling,  and  found  in  one  of  the 
netsasmall  rock-cod  and  a  half-starved  whiting, 
which  proved  the  whole  of  our  draught.  I  was 
informed  by  the  fishermen,  that  even  when  the 
shoal  is  thickest  on  the  Guilliam,  so  close  does 
it  keep  by  the  bank,  that  not  a  solitary  herring 
is  to  be  caught  a  gunshot  from  the  edge  on 
either  side. 

We  rowed  up  to  the  other  boats,  few  of  whom 
had  been  more  successful  in  their  last  haul 
than  ourselves,  and  none  equally  so  in  their 
first.  The  mist  prevented  us  from  ascertaining, 
by  known  landmarks,  the  position  of  the  bank, 
which  we  at  length  discovered  in  a  manner 
that  displayed  much  of  the  peculiar  art  of  the 
fisherman.  The  depth  of  the  water,  and  the 
nature  of  the  bottom,  showed  us  that  it  lay  to 
the  south.  A  faint  tremulous  heave  of  the  sea, 
which  was  still  calm,  was  the  only  remaining 
vestige  of  the  gale  which  had  blown  from  the 
west  in  the  early  part  of  the  night,  and  this 
heave,  together  with  the  current,  which  at  this 
stage  of  the  flood  runs  in  a  south  western  direc- 


OUT  WITH  THE  HERRING  FISHERS. 


tion,  served  as  our  compass.  We  next  premised 
how  far  our  boat  had  drifted  down  the  frith 
with  the  ebb-tide,  and  how  far  she  had  been 
carried  back  again  by  the  flood.  We  then 
turned  her  bows  in  the  line  of  the  current,  and 
in  rather  less  than  half  an  hour  were,  as  the 
lead  informed  us,  on  the  eastern  extremity  of 
Guilliam,  where  we  shot  our  nets  for  the  third 
time. 

Soon  after  sunrise  the  mist  began  to  dissi- 
pate, and  the  surface  of  the  water  to  appear  for 
miles  around  roughened  as  if  by  a  smart  breeze, 
though  there  was  not  the  slightest  breath  of 
wind  at  the  time.  "How  do  you  account  for 
that  appearance?"  said  I  tooneof  the  fishermen. 
"  Ah!  lad,  that  is  by  no  means  so  favourable  a 
token  as  the  one  you  asked  me  to  explain  last 
night.  I  had  as  lief  see  the  Bhodry-more." 
"  Why,  what  does  it  betoken?  and  what  is  the 
Bhodry-more?"  "It  betokens  that  the  shoal 
have  spawned,  and  will  shortly  leave  the  frith ; 
for  when  the  fish  are  sick  and  weighty  they 
never  rise  to  the  surface  in  that  way; — but 
have  you  never  heard  of  the  Bhodry-more?" 
I  replied  in  the  negative.  "Well,  but  you 
shall."  "Nay,"  said  another  of  the  crew, 
"leave  that  for  our  return;  do  you  not  see  the 
herrings  playing  by  thousands  round  our  nets, 
and  not  one  of  the  buoys  sinking  in  the  water? 
There  is  not  a  single  fish  swimming  so  low  as 
the  upper  baulks  of  our  drift.  Shall  we  not 
shorten  the  buoy-ropes,  and  take  off  the 
sinkers?"  This  did  not  meet  the  approbation 
of  the  others,  one  of  whom  took  up  a  stone,  and 
flung  it  in  the  middle  of  the  shoal.  The  fish 
immediately  disappeared  from  the  surface,  for 
several  fathoms  round.  "Ah!  there  they  go," 
he  exclaimed,  "if  they  go  but  low  enough; — 
four  years  ago  I  startled  thirty  barrels  of  light 
fish  into  my  drift  just  by  throwing  a  stone 
among  them." 

The  whole  frith  at  this  time,  so  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  appeared  crowded  with  her- 
rings ;  and  its  surface  was  so  broken  by  them 
as  to  remind  one  of  the  pool  of  a  waterfall. 
They  leaped  by  millions  a  few  inches  into  the 
air,  and  sunk  with  a  hollow  plumping  noise, 
somewhat  resembling  the  dull  rippling  sound 
of  a  sudden  breeze ;  while  to  the  eye  there  was 
a  continual  twinkling,  which,  while  it  mocked 
every  effort  that  attempted  to  examine  in  detail, 
showed  to  the  less  curious  glance  like  a  blue 
robe  sprinkled  with  silver.  But  it  is  not  by 
such  comparisons  that  so  singular  a  scene  is  to 
lie  described  so  as  to  be  felt.  It  was  one  of 
those  which,  through  the  living  myriads  of 
creation,  testify  of  the  infinite  Creator. 

About  noon  we  hauled  for  the  third  and  last 


time,  and  found  nearly  eight  barrels  of  fish. 
I  observed  when  hauling  that  the  natural  heat 
of  the  herring  is  scarcely  less  than  that  of 
quadrupeds  or  birds;  that  when  alive  its  sides 
are  shaded  by  a  beautiful  crimson  colour  which 
it  loses  when  dead;  and  that  when  newly 
brought  out  of  the  water,  it  utters  a  sharp  faint 
cry  somewhat  resembling  that  of  a  mouse.  We 
had  now  twenty  barrels  on  board.  The  easterly 
har,  a  sea-breeze  so  called  by  fishermen,  which 
in  the  Moray  Frith,  during  the  summer  months 
and  first  month  of  autumn,  commonly  comes 
on  after  ten  o'clock  A.M.,  and  fails  at  four 
o'clock  P.M.,  had  now  set  in.  We  hoisted  our 
mast  and  sail,  and  were  soon  scudding  right 
before  it. 

The  story  of  the  Bhodry-more,  which  I  de- 
manded of  the  skipper  as  soon  as  we  had 
trimmed  our  sail,  proved  interesting  in  no 
common  degree,  and  was  linked  with  a  great 
many  others.  The  Bhodry-more1  is  an  active, 
mischievous  fish  of  the  whale  species,  which 
has  been  known  to  attack  and  even  founder 
boats.  About  eight  years  ago,  a  very  large  one 
passed  the  town  of  Cromarty  through  the 
middle  of  the  bay,  and  was  seen  by  many  of 
the  townsfolks  leaping  out  of  the  water  in  the 
manner  of  a  salmon,  fully  to  the  height  of  a 
boat's  mast.  It  appeared  about  thirty  feet  in 
length.  This  animal  may  almost  be  regarded  as 
the  mermaid  of  modern  times :  for  the  fishermen 
deem  it  to  have  fully  as  much  of  the  demon  as 
of  the  fish.  There  have  been  instances  of  its 
pursuing  a  boat  under  sail  for  many  miles,  and 
even  of  its  leaping  over  it  from  side  to  side. 
It  appears,  however,  that  its  habits  and  appe- 
tites are  unlike  those  of  the  shark ;  and  that 
the  annoyance  which  it  gives  the  fisherman  is 
out  of  no  desire  of  making  him  its  prey,  but 
from  its  predilection  for  amusement.  1 1  seldom 
meddles  with  a  boat  when  at  anchor,  but  pur- 
sues one  under  sail,  as  a  kitten  would  a  rolling 
ball  of  yarn.  The  large  physalus  whale  is 
comparatively  a  dull,  sluggish  animal;  occa- 
sionally, however,  it  evinces  a  partiality  for 
the  amusements  of  the  Bhodry-more.  Our 
skipper  said,  that  when  on  the  Caithness  coast, 
a  few  years  before,  an  enormous  fish  of  the 
species  kept  direct  in  the  wake  of  his  boat  for 
more  than  a  mile,  frequently  rising  so  near  the 
stern  as  to  be  within  reach  of  the  boat-hook. 
He  described  the  expression  of  its  large  goggle 
eyes  as  at  once  frightful  and  amusing:  and  so 
graphic  was  his  narrative  that  I  could  almost 
paint  the  animal  stretching  out  for  more  than 
sixty  feet  behind  the  boat,  with  his  black 
marble-looking  skin  and  cliff-like  fins.  He  at 
1  Properly,  perhaps,  the  musculous  v  hale. 


170 


HAIDEE. 


length  grew  tired  of  its  gambols,  and  with  a 
sharp  fragment  of  rock  struck  it  between  the 
eyes.  It  sunk  with  a  sudden  plunge,  and  did 
not  rise  for  ten  minutes  after,  when  it  appeared 
a  full  mile  astern.  This  narrative  was  but  the 
first  of  I  know  not  how  many,  of  a  similar  cast, 
which  presented  to  my  imagination  the  Bhodry- 
inore  whale  and  hun-fish  in  every  possible 
point  of  view.  The  latter,  a  voracious  formid- 
able animal  of  the  shark  species,  frequently 
makes  great  havoc  among  the  tackle  with  which 
cod  and  haddock  are  caught.  Like  the  shark, 
it  throws  itself  on  its  back  when  in  the  act  of 
seizing  its  prey.  The  fishermen  frequently 
see  it  lying  motionless,  its  white  belly  glitter- 
ing through  the  water,  a  few  fathoms  from  the 
boat's  side,  employed  in  stripping  off  every 
fish  from  their  hooks  as  the  line  is  drawn  over 
it.  This  formidable  animal  is  from  six  to  ten 
feet  in  length,  and  formed  like  the  common 
shark. 

One  of  the  boatmen's  stories,  though  some- 
what in  the  Munchausen  style,  I  shall  take 
the  liberty  of  relating.  Two  Cromarty  men, 
many  years  ago,  were  employed  on  a  fine  calm 
day  in  angling  for  coal-fish  and  rock-cod,  with 
rods  and  hand-lines.  Their  little  skiff  rode 
to  a  large  oblong  stone,  which  served  for  an 
anchor,  nearly  opposite  a  rocky  spire  termed 
the  Chapel,  three  miles  south  of  Shandwick. 
Suddenly  the  stone  was  raised  from  the  bottom 
with  a  jerk,  and  the  boat  began  to  move. 
"What  can  this  mean,"  exclaimed  the  elder 
of  the  men,  pulling  in  his  rod,  "we  have 
surely  broken  loose,  but  who  could  have  thought 
that  there  ran  such  a  current  here!"  The 
other,  a  young  daring  fellow,  John  Clark  by 
name,  remarked  in  reply,  that  the  apparent 
course  of  the  skiff  was  directly  contrary  to  that 
of  the  current.  The  motion,  which  was  at 
first  gentle,  increased  to  a  frightful  velocity; 
the  rope  ahead  was  straightened  until  the  very 
stem  cracked  ;  and  the  sea  rose  upon  either 
bows  into  a  furrow  that  nearly  overtopped  the 
gunwale.  "Old  man,"  said  the  young  fellow, 
"didst  thou  ever  see  the  likeo'  that!"  "Guid 
save  us,  boy."  said  the  other,  "cut,  cut  the 
swing."  "Na,  na,  bide  a  wee  first,  I  manna 
skaith  the  rape:  didst  thou  ever  see  the  like  o' 
that!"  In  a  few  minutes,  according  to  the 
story,  they  were  dragged  in  this  manner  nearly 
two  miles,  when  the  motion  ceased  as  suddenly 
as  it  had  begun,  and  the  skiff  rode  to  the  swing 
as  before. 

The  scenes  exhibited  on  the  shores  of 
Cromarty,  during  the  busy  season  of  the  fishing, 
afford  nearly  as  much  scope  for  description, 
though  of  a  different  character,  as  those  in 


which  the  occupations  of  the  fisherman  mingle 
with  the  sublime  scenes  of  the  Moray  Frith. 
But  this  description  I  will  not  attempt.  Your 
readers  must  have  already  anticipated  it.  If 
not,  let  them  picture  to  themselves  the  shores 
of  a  seaport  town  crowded  with  human  figures, 
and  its  harbour  with  boats  and  vessels  of  trade. 
Let  them  imagine  the  bustle  of  the  workshop 
combining  with  the  confusion  of  the  crowded 
fair!  You,  Mr.  Editor,  who  have  seen  Holbein's 
"Dance  of  Death,"  would  perhaps  not  question 
the  soundness  of  the  imagination  that  would 
body  forth  so  busy  a  scene  as  the  dance  of 
commerce.  Sailors,  fishermen,  curers,  mechan- 
ics, all  engaged,  lead  up  the  ball  amid  heaps 
of  fish  that  glitter  to  the  sun,  tiers  of  casks 
and  pyramid*  of  salt.  Hark  to  the  music !  It 
is  a  wild  combination  of  irregular  sounds, — 
the  hammering,  of  mechanics,  the  rolling  of 
casks,  the  rattling  of  carts,  and  the  confused 
hum  of  a  thousand  voices. 


HAIDEE.1 

Juan  and  Haidee  gazed  upon  each  other 

With  swimming  looks  of  speechless  tenderness, 
Which  mixed  all  feelings— friend,  child,  lover,  brother, 

All  that  the  best  c:in  mingle  and  express 
When  two  pure  hearts  are  pour'd  in  one  another, 

And  love  too  much,  and  yet  cannot  love  less; 
But  almost  sanctify  the  sweet  excess 

By  the  immortal  wish  and  power  to  bless. 

Mix'd  in  each  other's  arms,  and  heart  in  heart, 
Why  did  they  iiot  then  die?— they  had  lived  too  long 

Should  an  hour  come  to  bid  them  breathe  apart ; 
Years  could  but  bring  them  cruel  things  or  wrong ; 

The  world  was  not  for  them,  nor  the  world's  art 
Fur  beings  passionate  as  Sappho's  song; 

Love  was  born  with  them,  in  them,  so  intense 

It  was  their  very  spirit — not  a  sense. 


1  The  first  two  cantos  of  Don  Juan  appeared  in  1819  ; 
neither  author's  nor  pxiblisher's  name  was  given  on  the 
title  page  But  the  authorship  was  at  once  divined, 
and  proclaimed  by  the  critics.  The  work  was  roundly 
abused  for  its  immorality,  but  all  acknowledged  it« 
marvellous  power,  and  the  brilliant  gems  of  poetry 
which  thickly  studded  the  production  throughout — 
they  were  the  stars  which  gave  their  light  to  good  and 
bad  impartially.  Byron  complained  often,  and  with 
reason,  that  his  personality  was  always  identified  with 
the  heroes  of  his  imagination.  Of  the  purpose  of  Don 
Juan,  he  said,  it  was  "to  remove  the  cloak  which  the 
manners  nnd  maxims  of  society  throw  over  their  secret 
sins  and  show  them  to  the  world  as  they  really  are." 
Notwithstanding,  it  is  only  selected  portions,  such  as 
the  above  that  nviy  be  safely  re-id  by  those  whose 
judgment  has  not  obtained  complete  conti'ol  of  passion. 


HAIDEE. 


171 


They  should  have  lived  together  deep  in  woods, 
Unseen  a»-  Biugs  the  riightingale  ;  they  were 

Unfit  to  mix  in  these  thick  solitudes 
Call'd  oociai,  haunts  of  Hate,  and  Vice,  and  Care : 

How  loneiy  every  freeborn  creature  broods ! 
The  sweetest  song-birds  nestle  in  a  j  air; 

The  eagle  soars  alone  ;  the  gull  and  crow 

Flock  o'er  their  carrion,  just  like  men  below. 

Now  pillow'd  cheek  to  cheek,  in  loving  sleep, 

Haidee  and  Juan  their  siesta  took, 
A  gentle  slumber,  but.  it  was  not  deep, 

For  ever  and  anon  a  something  shook 
Juan,  and  shuddering  o'er  his  frame  would  creep : 

And  Haidee  s  sweet  lips  murmur' d  like  a  brook 
A  wordless  music,  and  her  face  so  fair 
Stirr'd  with  her  dream,  as  rose-leaves  with  the  air. 

Or  as  the  stirring  of  a  deep  clear  stream 
Within  an  Alpine  hollow,  when  the  wind 

Walks  over  it,  was  she  shaken  by  the  dre^m, 
The  mystical  usurper  of  the  mind — 

O'erpowering  us  to  be  whate'er  may  seem 

Good  to  the  soul  which  we  no  more  can  bind; 

Strange  state  of  being !  (for  'tis  still  to  be; 

Senseless  to  feel,  and  with  seal'd  eyes  to  see. 

She  dream'd  of  being  alone  on  the  sea-shore, 
Chain'd  to  a  rock ;  she  knew  not  how,  but  stir 

She  could  not  from  the  spot,  and  the  loud  roar 
Grew,  and  each  wave  rose  roughly,  threatening  her ; 

And  o'er  her  upper  lip  they  seera'd  to  pour, 

Until  she  sobb'd  for  breath,  and  soon  they  were 

Foaming  o'er  her  lone  head,  so  fierce  and  high — 

Each  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  not  die. 

Anon — she  was  released,  and  then  she  stray  d 
O'er  the  sharp  shingles  with  her  blee.ling  feet, 

And  stumbled  almost  every  step  she  made ; 
And  something  rolled  before  her  in  a  sheet, 

Which  she  must  still  pursue  howe'er  afraid: 
'Twas  white  and  indistinct,  nor  stopp'd  to  meet 

Her  glance  nor  grasp,  for  still  she  gazed  and  grasped, 

And  ran,  but  it  escaped  her  as  she  clasp'd. 

The  dream  changed ;  in  a  cave  she  stood,  its  walls 
Were  hung  with  marble  icicles ;  the  work 

Of  ages  on  its  water-fretted  halls, 
Where  waves  might  wash,  and  seals  might  breed  and 
lurk; 

Her  hair  was  dripping,  and  the  very  balls 
Of  her  black  eyes  seem'd  turn'd  to  tears,  and  murk 

The  sharp  rocks  look'd  below  each  drop  they  caught, 

Which  froze  to  marble  as  it  fell  -she  thought. 

And  wet,  and  cold,  and  lifeless,  at  her  feet, 

Pale  as  the  foam  that  froth 'd  on  his  dead  brow. 

Which  she  essay'd  in  vain  to  clear  'how  sweet 
Were  once  her  caret,  how  idle  seem'd  they  now  !) 

Lay  Juan,  nor  could  aught  renew  the  beat 
Of  his  quenched  heart ;  and  the  sea  dirges  low 

Hang  in  her  sad  ears  like  a  mermaid's  song. 

And  ih.it  brief  dream  appe.tr' d  a  life  too  long. 


And  gazing  on  the  dead,  she  thought  his  taoe 
Faded,  or  alter'd  into  something  new  — 

Like  to  her  father's  features,  till  each  trace 
More  lik«  and  like  to  Lambro's  aspect  grew — 

With  all  his  keen  worn  look  and  Grecian  grace: 
And  starting,  she  awoke,  and  what  to  view? 

Oh !  Powers  of  Heaven  !  what  dark  eye  meets  she  ther*f 

'Tis — 'tis  her  father's  fix'd  upon  the  pair ! 

Then  shrieking,  she  arose,  and  shrieking  fell, 
With  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear,  to  see 

Him  whom  she  deem'd  a  habitant  where  dwell 
The  ocean-buried,  risen  from  death  to  be 

Perchance  the  death  of  one  she  loved  too  well : 
Dear  as  her  father  had  been  to  Haidee, 

It  was  a  moment  of  that  awful  kind — 

I  have  seen  such— but  must  not  call  to  mind. 

• 

Up  Juan  sprang  to  Haidee's  bitter  shriek, 
And  caught  her  falling,  and  from  off  the  w.ill 

Snatch'd  down  his  sabre,  in  hot  haste  to  wreak 
Vengeance  on  him  who  was  the  cause  of  all ; 

Then  Lambro,  who  till  now  forebore  to  speak, 
Smiled  scornfully,  and  said,  "Within  my  cull 

A  thousand  scimitars  await  the  word; 

Put  up,  young  man,  put  up  your  silly  sword." 

And  Haidee  clung  around  him;  "Juan,  'tis  — 
'Tis  Lambro — 'tis  my  father !    Kneel  with  me— 

He  will  forgive  us— yes— it  must  be— yes. 
Oh  !  dearest  father,  in  this  agony 

Of  pleasure  and  of  pain— even  while  I  kiss 
Thy  garment's  hem  with  transport,  can  it  be 

That  doubt  shall  mingle  with  my  filial  joy? 

Deal  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  spare  this  boy." 

High  and  inscrutable  the  old  man  stood, 
Calm  in  his  voice,  and  calm  within  his  eye — 

Not  always  signs  with  him  of  calmest  mood : 
He  look'd  upon  her,  but  gave  no  reply  ; 

Then  turn'd  to  Juan,  in  whose  cheek  the  blood 
Oft  came  and  went,  as  there  resolved  to  die; 

In  arms,  at  least,  he  stood,  in  act  to  spring 

On  the  first  foe  whom  Lambro's  call  might  bring. 

"Young  man,  your  sword;"  so  Lambro  once  more  said: 
Juan  replied,  "  Not  while  this  arm  is  free !" 

The  old  man's  cheek  grew  pale,  but  not  with  dread. 
And  drawing  from  his  belt  a  pistol,  he 

Replied,  "Your  blood  be  then  on  your  own  head  !" 
Then  look'd  close  at  the  flint,  a.-t  if  to  see 

'Twas  fresh — for  he  had  lately  used  the  lock — 

And  next  proceeded  quietly  to  cock. 

It  has  a  strange  quick  jar  upon  the  ear, 
That  cocking  of  a  pistol,  when  jou  know 

A  moment  more  will  bring  the  sight  to  bear 
Upon  your  person,  twelve  yards  off,  or  BO; 

A  gentlemanly  distance,  not  too  near, 
If  you  have  got  a  former  friend  for  foe; 

But  after  being  fired  at  once  or  twice. 

The  ear  becomes  more  Irish,  and  less  nice. 


172 


HAIDEB. 


Lambro  presented,  and  one  instant  more 

Had  stopp'd  this  canto,  and  Don  Juan's  breath, 

When  Haidee  threw  herself  her  boy  before ; 
Stern  as  her  sire,  "On  me,"  she  cried,  "let  death 

Descend — the  fault  is  mine ;  this  fatal  shore 
He  found — but  sought  not.    I  have  pledged  my  faith ; 

I  love  him— I  will  die  with  him;  I  knew 

Your  nature's  firmness  -  know  your  daughter's  too." 

A  minute  past,  and  she  had  been  all  tears, 

And  tenderness,  and  infancy;  but  now 
She  stood  as  one  who  champion'd  human  fears — 

Pale,  statue-like,  and  stern,  she  woo'd  the  blow; 
And  tall  beyond  her  sex,  and  their  compeers, 

She  drew  up  to  her  height,  as  if  to  show 
A  fairer  mark ;  and  with  a  fix'd  eye  scann'd 
Her  father's  face— but  never  stqpp'd  his  hand. 

Ha  gazed  on  her,  and  she  on  him ;  'twas  strange 
How  like  they  look'd!  the  expression  was  the  same; 

Serenely  savage,  with  a  little  change 
In  the  large  dark  eye's  mutual-darted  flame; 

For  she  too  was  as  one  who  could  avenge, 
If  cause  should  be— a  lioness,  though  tame; 

Her  father's  blood  before  her  father's  face 

Boil'd  up,  and  proved  her  truly  of  his  race. 

I  said  they  were  alike,  their  features  and 
Their  stature,  differing  but  in  sex  and  years ; 

Even  to  the  delicacy  of  their  hand 
There  was  resemblance,  such  as  true  blood  wears ; 

And  now  to  see  them,  thus  divided,  stand 
In  fix'd  ferocity,  when  joyous  tears, 

And  sweet  sensations,  should  have  welcomed  both, 

Would  show  what  passions  are  in  their  full  growth. 

The  father  paused  a  moment,  then  withdrew 
His  weapon,  and  replaced  it ;  but  stood  still, 

And  looking  on  her,  as  to  look  her  through, 

"Not  /,"  he  said,  "have  sought  this  stranger's  ill ; 

Not  /  have  made  this  desolation :  few 
Would  bear  such  outrage,  and  forbear  to  kill; 

But  I  must  do  my  duty — how  thou  hast 

Done  thine,  the  present  vouches  for  the  past. 

"  Let  him  disarm;  or,  by  my  father's  head, 
His  own  shall  roll  before  you  like  a  ball!" 

He  raised  his  whistle  as  the  word  he  said. 
And  blew;  another  answer'd  to  the  call, 

And  ru.-hing  in  disorderly,  though  led, 
And  arm'd  from  boot  to  turban,  one  and  all, 

Some  twenty  of  his  train  came,  rank  on  rank ; 

He  gave  the  word— "Arrest  or  slay  the  Frank." 

Then,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he  withdrew 
His  daughter;  while  compress1'!  within  his  grasp, 

'Twixt  her  and  Juan  interposed  the  crew — 
In  vain  she  struggled  in  her  father's  clasn, 

His  arms  were  like  a  serpent's  coil ;  then  flew 
Upon  their  prey,  as  darts  an  angry  asp. 

The  file  of  pirates :  save  the  foremost,  who 

Had  fallen,  with  his  right  sbxrulder  half  cut  through. 


The  secand  had  his  cheek  laid  open ;  but 
The  third,  a  wary,  cool  old  swortler  took 

The  blows  upon  his  cutlass,  and  then  j-ut 
His  own  well  in — so  well,  ere  you  could  look 

His  man  was  floor'd  and  helpless  at  his  foot, 
With  the  blood  running  like  a  little  brook 

From  two  smart  sabre  gashes,  deep  and  red — 

One  on  the  arm,  the  other  on  the  head. 

And  then  they  bound  him  where  he  fell,  and  bore 
Juan  from  the  apartment ;  with  a  sign 

Old  Lambro  bade  them  take  him  to  the  shore, 
Where  lay  some  ships  which  were  to  sail  at  nine. 

They  laid  him  in  a  boat,  and  plied  the  oar 
Until  they  reach'd  some  galliots,  placed  in  line; 

On  board  of  one  of  these,  and  under  hatches, 

They  stow'd  him,  with  strict  orders  to  the  watches. 

I  leave  Don  Juan,  for  the  present — safe — 
Not  sound,  poor  fellow,  but  severely  wounded; 

Yet  could  his  corporal  pangs  amount  to  half 
Of  those  with  which  his  Haidee's  bosom  bounded ! 

She  was  not  one  to  weep,  and  rave,  and  chafe, 
And  then  give  way,  subdued  because  surrounded; 

Her  mother  was  a  Moorish  maid  from  Fez, 

Where  all  is  Eden,  or  a  wilderness. 

There  the  large  olive  rains  its  amber  store 

In  marble  fonts ;  there  grain,  and  flower,  and  fruii 

Gush  from  the  earth  until  the  land  runs  o'er ; 
But  there,  too,  many  a  poison-tree  has  root, 

And  midnight  listens  to  the  lion's  roar, 
And  long,  long  deserts  scorch  the  camel's  foot, 

Or  heaving  whelm  the  helpless  caravan; 

And  as  the  soil  is,  so  the  heart  of  man. 

Afric  is  all  the  sun's,  and  as  her  earth 
Her  human  clay  is  kindled ;  full  of  power 

For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth, 
The  Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet's  hour, . 

And,  like  the  soil  beneath  it,  will  bring  forth ; 
Beauty  and  love  were  Haidee's  mother's  dower; 

But  her  large  dark  eye  show'd  deep  Passion's  force, 

Though  sleeping  like  a  lion  near  a  source. 

Her  daughter,  temper'd  with  a  milder  ray, 
Like  summer  clouds,  all  silvery,  smooth,  and  fair, 

Till  slowly  charged  with  thunder  they  display 
Terror  to  earth,  and  tempest  to  the  air, 

Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way ; 
But  overwrought  with  passion  and  desjiair, 

The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Numidian  veins, 

Even  as  the  simoom  sweeps  the  blasted  plains. 

The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan's  go-e. 
And  he  himself  o'ermaster'd  and  cut  down ; 

His  blood  was  running  on  the  very  flcxjr 
Where  late  he  trod,  her  beautiful,  her  own ; 

Tims  much  she  virw'd  an  instant  and  no  more— 
Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convu'sive  groan; 

On  her  sire's  arm,  which  until  now  scarce  tieid 

Her  writhing,  fell  she  like  a  cedar  fell'd. 


HAIDEE. 


173 


A  vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips'  pure  dyes 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which  ran  o'er ; 

And  her  head  droop' d  as  when  the  lily  lies 
O'ercharged  with  rain:  her  summon 'd  handmaids  bore 

Their  lady  to  her  couch  with  gushing  eyes  ; 

Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their  store, 

Birt  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ, 

Like  one  life  could  not  hold— nor  death  destroy  1 

Days  lay  she  in  that  state,  unchanged,  though  chill — 

With  nothing  livid,  still  her  lips  were  red ; 
She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  seem'd  absent  still; 

No  hideous  sign  proclaim'd  her  surely  dead ; 
Corruption  came  not,  in  each  mind  to  kill 

All  hope ;  to  look  ui*>n  her  sweet  face  bred 
New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seem'd  full  of  soul- 
She  had  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim  the  whole. 

The  ruling  passion,  such  as  marble  shows 
When  exquisitely  chisell'd,  still  lay  there, 

But  fix'd  as  marble's  unchanged  aspect  throws 
O'er  the  fair  Venus,  but  for  ever  fair; 

O'er  the  Laocoon's  all-eternal  throes, 
And  ever-dying  Gladiator's  air, 

Their  energy  like  life  forms  all  their  fame, 

Yet  looks  not  life,  for  they  are  still  the  same. 

She  woke  at  length— but  not  as  sleepers  wake — 
Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seem'd  something  new, 

A  strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 
Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 

Struck  not  her  memory,  though  a  heavy  ache 
Lay  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  bsat,  still  true, 

Brought  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the  cause, 

For,  for  a  while,  the  furies  made  a  pause. 

She  look'd  on  many  a  face  with  vacant  eye, 
On  many  a  token  without  knowing  what; 

She  saw  them  watch  her,  without  asking  why, 
And  reck'd  not  who  around  her  pillow  sat ; 

Not  speechless,  though  she  spoke  not :  not  a  sigh 
Relieved  her  thoughts  ;  dull  silence  and  quick  chat 

Were  tried  in  vain  by  thosa  who  served— she  gave 

No  sign,  save  breath,  of  having  left  the  grave. 

Her  handmaids  tended,  b'lt  she  heeded  not; 

Her  father  watch'd— she  turn'd  her  eyes  away— 
She  recognized  no  being,  and  no  spot, 

However  dear  or  cherish'd  in  their  day  ; 
They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but  all  forgot, 

Gentle,  but  without  memory  she  lay : 
At  length  those  eyes,  which  they  would  fain  be  weaning 
Back  to  old  thoughts,  wax'd  full  of  fearful  meaning 

And  then  a  slave  bethoxight  her  of  a  harp ; 

The  harper  came  and  tuned  his  instrument; 
At  the  first  notes— irregular  and  sharp — 

On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a  moment  bent; 
Then  to  the  wall  she  turn'd,  as  if  to  warp 

Her  thoughts  from  sorrow  through  her  heart  resent ; 
And  he  began  a  long  low  island  song. 
Of  ancient  days— ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 


Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall 

In  time  to  his  old  tune;  he  changed  the  theme, 

And  sung  of  love ;  the  fierce  name  struck  through  all 
Her  recollection ;  on  her  flash'd  the  dream 

Of  what  she  was,  and  IB,  if  ye  could  call 
To  be  so,  being :  in  a  gushing  stream 

The  tears  rush'd  forth  from  her  o'erclouded  brain, 

Like  mountain  mists  at  length  dissolved  in  rain. 

Short  solace !— vain  relief! — thought  came  too  quick, 
And  whirled  h«r  brain  to  madness :  she  arose 

As  one  who  ne'er  had  dwelt  among  the  sick, 
And  flew  at  all  she  met  as  on  her  foes ; 

But  no  one  ever  heard  her  speak  or  shriek, 
Although  her  paroxysm  drew  towards  its  close: 

Hers  was  a  frenzy  which  disdain'd  to  rave, 

Even  when  they  smote  her — in  the  hope  to  sav°. 

Yet  she  betray'd  at  times  a  gleam  of  sense ; 

Nothing  could  make  her  meet  her  father's  face, 
Though  on  all  other  things  with  looks  intense 

She  gazed,  but  none  she  ever  could  retrace ; 
Food  she  refused,  and  raiment ;  no  pretence 

Avail'd  for  either ;  neither  change  of  place, 
Nor  time,  nor  skill,  nor  remedy,  could  give  her 
Senses  to  sleep — the  power  seem'd  gone  for  ever. 

Twelve  days  and  nights  she  wither'd  thus ;  at  last 
Without  a  groan,  or  sigh,  or  glance,  to  show 

A  parting  pang,  the  spirit  from  her  pass'd ; 
And  they  who  watch'd  her  nearest  could  not  know 

The  very  instant,  till  the  change  that  cast 
Her  sweet  face  into  shadow,  dull  and  slow, 

Glazed  o'er  her  eyes— the  beautiful,  the  black— 

Oh  1  to  possess  such  lustre— and  then  lack! 

She  died— but  not  alone ;  she  held  within 
A  second  principle  of  life— which  might 

Have  dawn'd  a  fair  and  sinless  child  of  sin ; 
But  closed  its  little  being  without  light, 

And  went  down  to  the  grave  unborn,  wherein 
Blossom  and  bough  lie  wither'd  with  one  blight; 

In  vain  the  dews  of  heaven  descend  above 

The  bleeding  flower,  and  blasted  fruit  of  love. 

Thus  lived— thus  died  she;  never  more  on  her 
Shall  sorrow  light,  or  shame.     She  was  not  made 

Through  years  or  moons  the  inner  weight  to  1-cai-, 
Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  they  are  laid 

By  age  in  earth ;  her  days  and  pleasures  were 
Brief,  but  delightful— such  as  had  not  staid 

Long  with  her  destiny ;  but  she  sleeps  well 

By  the  sea-shore  whereon  she  loved  to  dwell 

That  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare, 
Its  dwellings  down,  its  tenants  pass'd  away, 

None  but  her  own  and  father's  grave  is  there, 
And  nothing  outward  tells  of  hviman  clay; 

Ye  could  not  know  where  lies  a  thing  so  fair — 
No  stone  is  there  to  show — no  tongue  to  say 

What  was ;  no  dirge,  except  the  hollow  seas, 

Mourns  o'er  the  beauty  ol  the  Cyclades. 

LUUL  BYRON. 


174 


THE   DEAN  OF    SANTIAGO. 


THE   DEAN   OF   SANTIAGO. 

It  was  but  a  short  hour  before  noon  when 
the  Dean  of  Santiago  alighted  from  his  mule 
at  the  door  of  Don  Julian,  the  celebrated 
magician  of  Toledo.  The  house,  according  to 
old  tradition,  stood  on  the  brink  of  the  per- 
pendicular rock  which,  now  crowned  with  the 
Alcazar,  rises  to  a  fearful  height  over  the 
Tagus.  A  maid  of  Moorish  blood  led  the  dean 
to  a  retired  apartment,  where  Don  Julian  was 
reading.  The  natural  politeness  of  a  Castilian 
had  rather  been  improved  than  impaired  by 
the  studies  of  the  Toledan  sage,  who  exhibited 
nothing  either  in  his  dress  or  person  that  might 
induce  a  suspicion  of  his  dealing  with  the  mys- 
terious powers  of  darkness.  "  I  heartily  greet 
your  reverence,"  said  Don  Julian  to  the  dean, 
"and  feel  highly  honoured  by  this  visit. 
Whatever  be  the  object  of  it,  let  me  beg  you 
will  defer  stating  it  till  I  have  made  you  quite 
at  home  in  this  house.  I  hear  my  housekeeper 
making  ready  the  noonday  meal.  That  maid, 
sir,  will  show  you  the  room  which  has  been 
prepared  for  you ;  and  when  you  have  brushed 
off  the  dust  of  the  journey,  you  shall  find  a 
canonical  capon  steaming  hot  upon  the  board." 
The  dinner,  which  soon  followed,  was  just  what 
a  pampered  Spanish  canon  would  wish  it — 
abundant,  nutritive,  and  delicate.  "No,  no," 
said  Don  Julian,  when  the  soup  and  a  bumper 
of  Tinto  had  recruited  the  dean's  spirits,  and 
he  saw  him  making  an  attempt  to  break  the 
object  of  his  visit,  "no  business,  please  your 
reverence,  while  at  dinner.  Let  us  enjoy  our 
meal  at  present ;  and  when  we  have  discussed 
the  Olla,  the  capon,  and  a  bottle  of  Yepes,  it 
will  be  time  enough  to  turn  to  the  cares  of 
life."  The  ecclesiastic's  full  face  had  never 
beamed  with  more  glee  at  the  collation  on 
Christmas-eve,  when,  by  the  indulgence  of  the 
church,  the  fast  is  broken  at  sunset,  instead  of 
continuing  through  the  night,  than  it  did 
now  under  the  influence  of  Don  Julian's  good 
humour  and  heart -cheering  wine.  Still  it  was 
evident  that  some  vehement  and  ungovernable 
wish  had  taken  possession  of  his  mind,  break- 
ing out  now  and  then  in  some  hurried  motion, 
some  gulping  up  of  a  full  glass  of  wine  without 
stopping  to  relish  the  flavour,  and  fifty  other 
symptoms  of  absence  and  impatience,  which 
at  such  a  distance  from  the  cathedral  could 
not  be  attributed  to  the  afternoon  bell.  The 
time  came  at  length  of  rising  from  table,  and 
in  spite  of  Don  Julian's  pressing  request  to 
have  another  bottle,  the  dean,  with  a  certain 


dignity  of  manner,  led  his  good-natured  host 
to  the  recess  of  an  oriel  window  looking  upon 
the  river.  "Allow  me,  dear  Don  Julian,"  he 
said,  "to  open  my  heart  to  you;  for  even  your 
hospitality  must  fail  to  make  me  completely 
happy  till  I  have  obtained  the  boon  which  I 
came  to  ask.  I  know  that  no  man  ever  pos- 
sessed greater  power  than  you  over  the  Invis- 
ible agents  of  the  universe.  I  die  to  become 
an  adept  in  that  wonderful  science,  and  if  you 
will  receive  me  for  your  pupil,  there  is  nothing 
I  should  think  of  sufficient  worth  to  repay 
your  friendship."  "Good  sir,"  replied  Don 
Julian,  "I  should  be  extremely  loath  to  offend 
you;  but  permit  me  to  say,  that  in  spite  of  the 
knowledge  of  causes  and  effects  which  I  have 
acquired,  all  that  my  experience  teaches  me  of 
the  heart  of  man  is  not  only  vague  and  indis- 
tinct, but  for  the  most  part  unfavourable.  I 
only  guess,  I  cannot  read  their  thoughts,  nor 
pry  into  the  recesses  of  their  minds.  As  for 
yourself,  I  am  sure  you  are  a  rising  man  and 
likely  to  obtain  the  first  dignities  of  the  church. 
But  whether,  when  you  find  yourself  in  places 
of  high  honour  and  patronage,  you  will  re- 
member the  humble  personage  of  whom  you 
now  ask  a  hazardous  and  important  service,  it 
is  impossible  forme  to  ascertain."  "Nay,  nay," 
exclaimed  the  dean,  "  but  I  know  myself,  if 
you  do  not,  Don  Julian.  Generosity  and  friend- 
ship (since  you  force  me  to  speak  in  my  own 
praise)  have  been  the  delight  of  my  soul  even 
from  childhood.  Doubt  not,  my  dear  friend 
(for  by  that  name  I  wish  you  would  allow  me 
to  call  you),  doubt  not,  from  this  moment,  to 
command  my  services.  Whatever  interest  I 
may  possess,  it  will  be  my  highest  gratifica- 
tion to  see  it  redound  in  favour  of  you  and 
yours."  "My  hearty  thanks  for  all,  worthy 
sir,"  said  Don  Julian.  "  But  let  us  now  pro- 
ceed to  business:  the  sun  is  set,  and,  if  you 
please,  we  will  retire  to  my  private  study." 

Lights  being  called  for,  Don  Julian  led  the 
way  to  the  lower  part  of  the  house ;  and  dis- 
missing the  Moorish  maid  near  a  small  door, 
of  which  he  held  the  key  in  his  hand,  desired 
her  to  get  two  partridges  for  supper,  but  not 
to  dress  them  till  he  should  order  it:  then  un- 
locking the  door,  he  began  to  descend  by  a 
winding  staircase.  The  dean  followed  with  a 
certain  degree  of  trepidation,  which  the  length 
of  the  stairs  greatly  tended  to  increase ;  for,  to 
all  appearance,  they  reached  below  the  bed  of 
the  Tagus.  At  this  depth  a  comfortable  neat 
room  was  found,  the  walls  completely  covered 
with  shelves,  where  Don  Julian  kept  his  works 
on  magic ;  globes,  planispheres,  and  strange 
drawings,  occupied  the  top  of  the  bookcases. 


THE    DEAN    OF   SANTIAGO. 


175 


Fresh  air  was  admitted,  though  it  would  be 
difficult  to  guess  by  what  means,  since  the 
sound  of  gliding  water,  such  as  is  heard  at  the 
lower  part  of  a  ship  when  sailing  with  a  gentle 
breeze,  indicated  but  a  thin  partition  between  the 
subterraneous  cabinet  and  the  river.  "  Here, 
then,"  said  Don  Julian,  offering  a  chair  to  the 
dean,  and  drawing  another  for  himself  towards 
a  small  round  table,  "we  have  only  to  choose 
among  the  elementary  works  of  the  science  for 
which  you  long.  Suppose  we  begin  to  read 
this  small  volume. "  The  volume  was  laid  on 
the  table,  and  opened  at  the  first  page,  con- 
taining circles,  concentric  and  eccentric,  tri- 
angles with  unintelligible  characters,  and  the 
well-known  signs  of  the  planets.  "This," 
said  Don  Julian,  "is  the  alphabet  of  the  whole 

science.      Hermes,   called   Trismegistus " 

The  sound  of  a  small  bell  within  the  chamber 
made  the  dean  almost  leap  out  of  his  chair. 
"Be  not  alarmed,"  said  Don  Julian;  "it  is 
the  bell  by  which  my  servants  let  me  know 
that  they  want  to  speak  to  me. "  Saying  thus 
he  pulled  a  silk  string,  and  soon  after  a  servant 
appeared  with  a  packet  of  letters.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  the  dean.  A  courier  had  closely 
followed  him  on  the  road,  and  was  that  moment 
arrived  at  Toledo.  "Good  Heavens!"  ex- 
claimed the  dean,  having  read  the  contents 
of  the  letters  ;  "my  great  uncle,  the  Archbishop 
of  Santiago,  is  dangerously  ill.  This  is,  how- 
ever, what  the  secretary  says  from  his  lord- 
ship's dictation.  But  here  is  another  letter 
from  the  archdeacon  of  the  diocese,  who  assures 
me  that  the  old  man  was  not  expected  to  live. 
I  can  hardly  repeat  what  he  adds.  Poor  dear 
uncle  !  may  Heaven  lengthen  his  days !  The 
chapter  seem  to  have  turned  their  eyes  towards 
me,  and — pugh !  it  cannot  be — but  the  electors, 
according  to  the  archdeacon,  are  quite  decided 
in  my  favour."  "Well,"  said  Don  Julian, 
"all  I  regret  is  the  interruption  of  our  studies; 
but  I  doubt  not  that  you  will  soon  wear  the 
mitre.  In  the  meantime  I  would  advise  you 
to  pretend  that  illness  does  not  allow  you  to 
return  directly.  A  few  days  will  surely  give  a 
decided  turn  to  the  whole  affair ;  and,  at  all 
events,  your  absence  in  case  of  an  election  will 
be  construed  into  modesty.  Write,  therefore, 
your  despatches,  my  dear  sir,  and  we  will  pro- 
secute our  studies  at  another  time." 

Two  days  had  elapsed  since  the  arrival  of  the 
messenger,  when  the  verger  of  the  church  of 
Santiago,  attended  by  servants  in  splendid 
liveries,  alighted  at  Don  Julian's  door  with 
letters  for  the  dean.  The  old  prelate  was  dead, 
and  his  nephew  had  beei>.  electad  to  the  see 
by  the  unanimous  vote  of  the  chapter.  The 


elected  dignitary  seemed  overcome  by  contend- 
ing feelings;  but,  having  wiped  away  some 
decent  tears,  he  assumed  an  air  of  gravity,- 
which  almost  touched  on  superciliousness.  Don 
Julian  addressed  his  congratulations,  and  was 
the  first  to  kiss  the  new  archbishop's  hand. 
"I  hope,"  he  added,  "I  may  also  congratu- 
late my  son,  the  young  man  who  is  now  at  the 
university  of  Paris ;  for  I  flatter  myself  your 
lordship  will  give  him  the  deanery  which  is 
vacant  by  your  promotion."  "My  worthy 
friend,  Don  Julian,"  replied  the  archbishop 
elect,  "my  obligations  to  you  I  can  never 
sufficiently  repay.  You  have  heard  my  char- 
acter; I  hold  a  friend  as  another  self.  But 
why  would  you  take  the  lad  away  from  his 
studies?  An  archbishop  of  Santiago  cannot 
want  preferment  at  any  time.  Follow  me  to 
my  diocese ;  I  will  not,  for  all  the  mitres  in 
Christendom,  forego  the  benefit  of  your  instruc- 
tion. The  deanery,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  must 
be  given  to  my  uncle,  my  father's  own  brother, 
who  has  had  but  a  small  living  for  many  years; 
he  is  much  liked  in  Santiago,  and  I  should 
lose  my  character  if,  to  place  such  a  young 
man  as  your  son  at  the  head  of  the  chapter,  I 
neglected  an  exemplary  priest,  so  nearly  related 
to  me."  "Just  as  you  please,  my  lord,"  said 
Don  Julian;  and  began  to  prepare  for  the 
journey. 

The  acclamations  which  greeted  the  new 
archbishop  on  his  arrival  at  the  capital  of 
Galicia  were,  not  long  after,  succeeded  by  a 
universal  regret  at  his  translation  to  the  see 
of  the  recently  conquered  town  of  Seville.  "I 
will  not  leave  you  behind,"  said  the  archbishop 
to  Don  Julian,  who,  with  more  timidity  than 
he  showed  at  Toledo,  approached  to  kiss  the 
sacred  ring  in  the  archbishop's  right  hand, 
and  to  offer  his  humble  congratulations,  "but 
do  not  fret  about  your  son.  He  is  too  young. 
I  have  my  mother's  relations  to  provide  for ; 
but  Seville  is  a  rich  see;  the  blessed  King 
Ferdinand,  who  rescued  it  from  the  Moors, 
endowed  its  church  so  as  to  make  it  rival  the 
first  cathedrals  in  Christendom.  Do  but  fol- 
low me,  and  all  will  be  well  in  the  end." 
Don  Julian  bowed  with  a  suppressed  sigh,  and 
was  soon  after  on  the  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir, 
in  the  suite  of  the  new.  archbishop. 

Scarcely  had  Don  Julian's  pupil  been  at 
Seville  one  year,  when  his  far  extended  fame 
moved  the  pope  to  send  him  a  cardinal's  hat, 
desiring  his  presence  at  the  court  of  Rome. 
The  crowd  of  visitors  who  came  to  congratulate 
the  prelate  kept  Don  Julian  away  for  many 
days.  He  at  length  obtained  a  private  audi- 
ence, and,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  entreated  his 


176 


THE  TWO  FOUNTAINS. 


eminence  not  to  oblige  him  to  quit  Spain.  "I 
am  growing  old,  my  lord,"  he  said ;  "  I  quitted 
my  house  at  Toledo  only  for  your  sake,  and  in 
hopes  of  raising  my  son  to  some  place  of  honour 
and  emolument  in  the  church;  I  even  gave  up 
my  favourite  studies,  except  as  far  as  they 

were  of  service  to  your  eminence.    My  son " 

"  Xo  more  of  that,  if  you  please,  Don  Julian," 
interrupted  the  cardinal.  "  Follow  me,  you 
must ;  who  can  tell  what  may  happen  at  Rome? 
The  pope  is  old,  you  know.  But  do  not  tease 
me  about  preferment.  A  public  man  has  duties 
of  a  description  which  those  in  the  lower  ranks 
of  life  cannot  either  weigh  or  comprehend.  I 
confess  I  am  under  obligations  to  you,  and 
feel  quite  disposed  to  reward  your  services ;  yet 
I  must  not  have  my  creditors  knocking  every 
day  at  my  door ;  you  understand,  Don  Julian. 
In  a  week  we  set  out  for  Rome." 

With  such  a  strong  tide  of  good  fortune  as 
had  hitherto  buoyed  up  Don  Julian's  pupil, 
the  reader  cannot  be  surprised  to  find  him,  in 
a  short  time,  wearing  the  papal  crown.  He 
was  now  arrived  at  the  highest  place  of  honour 
on  earth ;  but  in  the  bustle  of  the  election  and 
subsequent  coronation,  the  man  to  whose  won- 
derful science  he  owed  this  rapid  ascent  had 
completely  slipped  off  his  memory.  Fatigued 
with  the  exhibition  of  himself  through  the 
streets  of  Rome,  which  he  had  been  obliged  to 
make  in  a  solemn  procession,  the  new  pope  sat 
alone  in  one  of  the  chambers  of  the  Vatican. 
It  was  early  in  the  night.  By  the  light  of  two 
wax  tapers  which  scarcely  illuminated  the 
farthest  end  of  the  grand  saloon,  his  holiness 
was  enjoying  that  reverie  of  mixed  pain  and 
pleasure  which  follows  the  complete  attainment 
of  ardent  wishes,  when  Don  Julian  advanced 
in  visible  perturbation,  conscious  of  the  intru- 
sion on  which  he  ventured.  "Holy  father!" 
exclaimed  the  old  man,  and  cast  himself  at  his 
pupil's  feet:  "Holy  father,  in  pity  to  these 
gray  hairs  do  not  consign  an  old  servant — 
might  I  not  say  an  old  friend? — to  utter  neglect 

and  forgetful  ness.     My  son "     "By  St. 

Peter ! "  ejaculated  his  holiness,  rising  from  the 
chair,  "your  insolence  shall  be  checked — you 
my  friend?  A  magician  the  friend  of  heaven's 
vicegerent !  Away,  wretched  man  !  When  I 
pretended  to  learn  of  thee,  it  was  only  to  sound 
the  abyss  of  crime  into  which  thou  hadst 
plunged  ;  I  did  it  with  a  view  of  bringing  thee 
to  condign  punishment.  Yet,  in  compassion 
to  thy  age,  I  will  not  make  an  example  of 
thee,  provided  thou  avoidest  my  eyes.  Hide 
thy  crime  and  shame  where  thou  canst.  This 
moment  thou  must  quit  the  palace,  or  the  next 
closes  the  gates  of  the  Inquisition  upon  thee." 


Trembling,  and  hU  wrinkled  face  bedewed 
with  tears,  Don  Julian  begged  to  be  allowed 
but  one  word  more.  "  L  am  very  poor,  holy 
father,"  said  he:  "trusting  in  your  patronage 
I  relinquished  my  all,  and  have  not  left  where- 
with to  pay  my  journey."  "Away,  I  say," 
answered  the  pope;  "if  my  excessive  bounty 
has  made  you  neglect  your  patrimony,  I  will 
no  farther  encourage  your  waste  and  improvi- 
dence. Poverty  is  but  a  slight  punishment 
for  your  crimes. "  ' '  But,  father, "  rejoined  Don 
Julian,  "my  wants  are  instant;  I  am  hungry: 
give  me  but  a  trifle  to  procure  a  supper  to-night. 
To-morrow  I  shall  beg  my  way  out  of  Rome. " 
"Heaven  forbid,"  said  the  pope,  "that  I 
should  be  guilty  of  feeding  the  ally  of  the 
prince  of  darkness.  Away,  away  from  my 
presence,  or  I  instantly  call  for  the  guard." 
"  Well,  then,"  replied  Don  Julian,  rising  from 
the  ground,  and  looking  on  the  pope  with  a 
boldness  which  began  to  throw  his  holiness 
into  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  "if  I  am  to  starve  at 
Rome,  I  had  better  return  to  the  supper  which 
I  ordered  at  Toledo."  Thus  saying,  he  rang 
a  gold  bell  which  stood  on  a  table  next  the 
pope.  The  door  opened  without  delay,  and 
the  Moorish  servant  came  in.  The  pope  looked 
round,  and  found  himself  in  the  subterraneous 
study  under  the  Tagus.  "Desire  the  cook," 
said  Don  Julian  to  the  maid,  "to  put  but  one 
partridge  to  roast ;  for  I  will  not  throw  away 
the  other  on  the  Dean  of  Santiago. " 

From  the  Spanish. 


THE  TWO   FOUNTAINS. 

I  saw,  from  yonder  silent  cave, 

Two  fountains  running  side  by  side; 
The  one  was  Memory's  limpid  wave, 

The  other  cold  Oblivion's  tide. 
'O  love!"  said  I,  in  thoughtless  dream, 

As  o'er  my  lips  the  Lethe  pass'd, 

'Here  in  this  dark  and  chilly  stream, 

Be  all  my  pains  forgot  at  last." 

But  who  could  bear  that  gloomy  blank, 

Where  joy  was  lost  as  well  as  pain? 
Quickly  of  Memory's  fount  I  drank, 

And  brought  the  past  all  back  again; 
And  said,  "O  Love!  whate'er  my  lot, 

Still  let  this  soul  to  thee  be  true — 
Rather  than  have  one  bliss  forgot, 

Be  rJI  my  p Jna  remember'd  too ! " 

THOMAS  MOOBE 


MASTER  AND  MAN. 


377 


MASTER  AND  MAN. 

Thomas  Crofton  Croker,  born  at  Cork,  15th  January, 
l~9i;  died  at  Bromptou,  London,  8th  August,  1854.  His 
Vniry  Legends  and  Traditions  of  the  Soath  nf  Ireland, 
the  first  edition  of  which  appeared  in  1825,  remains  the 
standard  work  on  the  fairy  lore  of  the  author's  country. 
Sir  Walter  Scutt,  in  his  Dcmon<il»gy  and  in  a  note  to 
Rub  Roy,  speaks  of  it  in  terms  of  the  highest  admira- 
tion. Mr.  Croker's  fame  was  established  and  main- 
tained, by  this  book,  although  he  wrote  and  edited 
several  other  works,  and  was  a  frequent  contributor  to 
the  Gentleman's  and  Fraser's  Magazines.  He  was  the 
author  of  the  popular  story  of  Daniel  O'Rourlce.  In  an 
interesting  memoir  written  by  his  son,  Mr.  T.  F.  Dillon 
Croker,  and  prefaced  to  his  gossiping  Walk  from.  London 
to  Fulham,  it  is  mentioned  that  the  tales  of  Barney 
MaJioney  and  My  Village  versus  Our  Village,  which 
are  usually  attributed  to  Mr.  Croker,  were  in  reality 
written  by  his  wife.  HU  writings  are  full  of  humour 
and  imagery.] 

Billy  Mac  Daniel  was  once  as  likely  a  young 
man  as  ever  shook  his  brogue  at  a  pattern, 
emptied  a  quart,  or  handled  a  shillelagh;  fear- 
ing for  nothing  but  the  want  of  drink,  caring 
for  nothing  but  who  should  pay  for  it,  and 
thinking  of  nothing  but  how  to  make  fun  over 
it.  drunk  or  sober,  a  word  and  a  blow  was  ever 
the  way  with  Billy  Mac  Daniel;  and  a  mighty 
easy  way  it  is  of  either  getting  into  or  ending 
a  dispute.  More  is  the  pity  that,  through  the 
means  of  his  thinking,  and  fearing,  and  caring 
for  nothing,  this  same  Billy  Mac  Daniel  fell 
into  bad  company;  for  surely  the  good  people 
(the  fairies)  are  the  worst  of  all  company  any 
one  could  come  across. 

It  so  happened  that  Billy  was  going  home 
one  very  clear  frosty  night,  not  long  after 
Christmas.  The  moon  was  round  and  bright: 
but  although  it  was  as  fine  a  night  as  heart 
could  wish  for,  he  felt  pinched  with  the  cold. 
"By  my  word,"  chattered  Billy,  "a  drop  of 
good  liquor  would  be  no  bad  thing  to  keep  a 
man's  soul  from  freezing  in  him;  and  I  wish  I 
had  a  full  measure  of  the  best. " 

"Never  wish  it  twice,  Billy,"  said  a  little 
man  in  a  three-cornered  hat,  bound  all  about 
with  gold  lace,  and  with  great  silver  buckles 
in  his  shoes,  so  big  that  it  was  a  wonder  how 
he  could  carry  them;  and  he  held  out  a  glass 
as  big  as  himself,  filled  with  as  good  liquor  as 
ever  eye  looked  on  or  lip  tasted. 

"Success,  my  little  fellow,"  said  Billy  Mac 
Daniel,  nothing  daunted,  though  well  he  knew 
the  little  man  to  belong  to  the  good  people; 
"here's  your  health,  any  way,  and  thank  you 
kindly,  no  matter  who  pays  for  the  drink:" 
tnd  he  took  the  glass  and  drained  it  to  the 


very   bottom   without   ever  taking  a   second 
to  it. 

"  Success,"  said  the  little  man;  "and  you're 
heartily  welcome,  Billy;  but  don't  think  to 
cheat  me  as  you  have  done  others;  out  with 
your  purse  and  pay  me  like  a  gentleman.'' 

"  Is  it  I  pay  you?"  said  Billy;  "could  I  not 
just  take  you  up  and  put  you  in  my  pocket  as 
easily  as  a  blackberry?" 

"Billy  Mac  Daniel,"  said  the  little  man, 
getting  very  angry,  "you  shall  be  my  servant 
for  seven  years  and  a  day,  and  that  is  the  way 
I  will  be  paid;  so  make  ready  to  follow  me." 

When  Bil'y  heard  this  he  began  to  be  very 
sorry  for  having  used  such  bold  words  towards 
the  little  man;  and  he  felt  himself,  yet  could 
not  tell  how,  obliged  to  follow  the  little  man 
the  livelong  night  about  the  country,  up  and 
down,  and  over  hedge  and  ditch,  and  through 
bog  and  brake,  without  any  rest. 

When  morning  began  to  dawn  the  little  man 
turned  round  to  him  and  said,  "  You  may  now 
go  home,  Billy,  but  on  your  peril  don't  fail  to 
meet  me  in  the  Fort  field  to-night;  or  if  you 
do,  it  may  be  the  worse  for  you  in  the  long- 
run.  If  I  find  you  a  good  servant,  you  will 
find  me  an  indulgent  master." 

Home  went  Billy  Mac  Daniel;  and  though 
he  was  tired  and  wearied  enough,  never  a 
wink  of  sleep  could  he  get  for  thinking  of  the 
little  man:  and  he  was  afraid  not  to  do  his 
bidding,  so  up  he  got  in  the  evening,  and 
away  he  went  to  the  Fort-field.  He  was  not 
long  there  before  the  little  man  came  towards 
him  and  said,  "  Billy,  I  want  to  go  a  long 
journey  to-night;  so  saddle  one  of  my  horses, 
and  you  may  saddle  another  for  yourself,  as 
you  are  to  go  along  with  me,  and  may  be  tired 
after  your  walk  last  night. " 

Billy  thought  this  very  considerate  of  his 
master,  and  thanked  him  accordingly.  "  But," 
said  he,  "if  I  may  be  so  bold,  sir,  I  would  ask 
which  is  the  way  to  your  stable,  for  never  a 
thing  do  I  see  but  the  Fort  here,  and  the  old 
tree  in  the  corner  of  the  field,  and  the  stream 
running  at  the.  bottom  of  the  hill,  with  the  bit 
of  bog  over  against  us." 

"Ask  no  questions,  Billy,"  said  the  little 
man,  "but  go  over  to  that  bit  of  bog  and  bring 
me  two  of  the  strongest  rushes  you  can  find." 

Billy  did  accordingly,  wondering  what  the 
little  man  would  be  at;  and  he  picked  out  two 
of  the  stoutest  rushes  he  could  find,  with  a 
little  bunch  of  brown  blossom  stuck  at  the  side 
of  each,  and  brought  them  back  to  his  master. 

"Get  up,  Billy,"  said  the  little  man,  taking 
one  of  the  rushes  from  him,  and  striding 
across  it. 

12 


178 


MASTER  AND  MAN. 


"  Where  shall  I  get  up,  please  your  honour?" 
eaid  Billy. 

"  Why,  upon  horseback,  like  me,  to  be  sure," 
said  the  little  man. 

"  Is  it  after  making  a  fool  of  me  you'd  be," 
said  Billy,  "bidding  me  get  a-horseback  upon 
that  bit  of  a  rush?  May  be  you  want  to  per- 
suade me  that  the  rush  I  pulled  but  a  while 
ago  out  of  the  bog  there  is  a  horse." 

"  Up!  up!  and  no  words,"  said  the  little 
man,  looking  very  angry,  "the  best  horse  you 
ever  rode  was  but  a  fool  to  it."  So  Billy, 
thinking  all  this  was  in  joke,  and  fearing  to 
vex  his  master,  straddled  across  the  rush: 
•"  Borram  !  Borram  !  Borram  !"  cried  the  little 
man  three  times  (which  in  English  means  to 
become  great),  and  Billy  did  the  same  after 
him:  presently  the  rushes  swelled  up  into  fine 
horses,  and  away  they  went  full  speed;  but 
Billy,  who  had  pat  the  rush  between  his  legs 
without  much  minding  how  he  did  it,  found 
himself  sitting  on  horseback  the  wrong  way, 
which  was  rather  awkward,  with  his  face  to 
xhe  horse's  tail;  and  so  quickly  had  his  steed 
started  off  with  him,  that  he  had  no  power  to 
turn  round,  and  there  was  therefore  nothing 
tor  it  but  to  hold  on  by  the  tail. 

At  last  they  came  to  their  journey's  end, 
and  stopped  at  the  gate  of  a  fine  house: 
"  Now,  Billy,"  said  the  little  man,  "do  as  you 
tiee  me  do,  and  follow  me  close;  but  as  you  did 
not  know  your  horse's  head  from  his  tail,  mind 
that  your  own  head  does  not  spin  round  until 
you  can't  tell  whether  you  are  standing  on  it 
or  on  your  heels. " 

The  little  man  then  said  some  queer  kind  of 
words,  out  of  which  Billy  could  make  no  mean- 
ing; but  he  contrived  to  say  them  after  him  for 
all  that;  and  in  they  both  went  through  the 
key-hole  of  the  door,  and  through  one  key- 
hole after  another,  until  they  got  into  the 
wine  cellar,  which  was  well  stored  with  all 
kinds  of  wine. 

The  little  man  fell  to  drinking  as  hard  as 
he  could,  and  Billy,  nowise  disliking  the  ex- 
ample, did  the  same.  "  The  best  of  masters 
are  you,  surely,"  said  Billy  to  him,  "no 
matter  who  is  the  next;  and  well  pleased  will 
I  be  with  your  service  if  you  continue  to  give 
me  plenty  to  drink." 

"  I  have  made  no  bargain  with  you,"  said 
the  little  man,  "and  will  make  none;  but  up 
and  follow  me."  Away  they  went,  through 
key-hole  after  key-hole:  and  each  mounting 
upon  the  rush  which  he  left  at  the  hall  door, 
scampered  off,  kicking  the  clouds  before  them 
like  snowballs,  as  soon  as  the  words,  "  Borram  ! 
Borram  I  Borram !"  had  passed  their  lips. 


When  they  came  back  to  the  Fort-field,  the 
little  man  dismissed  Billy,  bidding  him  to  be 
there  the  next  night  at  the  same  hour.  Thus 
did  they  go  on,  night  after  night,  shaping  their 
course  one  night  here,  and  another  night  there; 
sometimes  north,  and  sometimes  east,  and 
sometimes  south,  until  there  was  not  a  gentle- 
man's wine-cellar  in  all  Ireland  they  had  not 
visited,  and  could  tell  the  flavour  of  every 
wine  in  it  as  well — ay,  better — than  the  butler 
himself. 

One  night  when  Billy  Mac  Daniel  met  the 
little  man  as  usual  in  the  Fort -field,  and  was 
going  to  the  bog  to  fetch  the  horses  for  their 
journey,  his  master  said  to  him,  "  Billy,  I  shall 
want  another  horse  to-night,  for  maybe  we  may 
bring  back  more  company  with  us  than  we 
take."  So  Billy,  who  now  knew  better  than  to 
question  any  order  given  to  him  by  his  master, 
brought  a  third  rush,  much  wondering  who  it 
might  be  that  would  travel  back  in  their  com- 
pany, and  whether  he  was  about  to  have  a  fel- 
low-servant. "  If  I  have,"  thought  Billy,  "he 
shall  go  and  fetch  the  horses  from  the  bog  every 
night;  for  I  don't  see  why  I  am  not,  every  inch 
of  me,  as  good  a  gentleman  as  my  master." 

Well,  away  they  went,  Billy  leading  the 
third  horse,  and  never  stopped  until  they  came 
to  a  snug  farmer's  house  in  the  county  of 
Limerick,  close  under  the  old  castle  of  Carrigo- 
gunniel,  that  was  built,  they  say,  by  the  groat 
Brian  Boru.  Within  the  house  there  was  great 
carousing  going  forward,  and  the  little  man 
stopped  outside  for  some  time  to  listen;  then 
turning  round  all  of  a  sudden,  said,  "  Biliy, 
I  will  be  a  thousand  years  old  to-morrow. " 

"God  bless  us!  sir,"  said  Billy,  "will  you?" 

"  Don't  say  these  words  again,"  said  the 
little  man,  "or  you  will  be  my  ruin  for  ever. 
Now,  Billy,  as  I  will  be  a  thousand  years  in. 
the  world  to-morrow,  I  think  it  is  full  time  for 
me  to  get  married. " 

"  I  think  so,  too,  without  any  kind  of  doubt  at 
all,"  said  Billy,  "if  ever  you  mean  to  marry." 

"And  to  that  purpose,"  said  the  little  man, 
"have  I  come  all  the  way  to  Carrigogunniel; 
for  in  this  house,  this  very  night,  is  young 
Darby  Riley  going  to  be  married  to  Bridget 
Rooney;  and  as  she  is  a  tall  and  comely  girl, 
and  has  come  of  decent  people,  I  think  of  mar- 
rying her  myself,  and  taking  her  off  with  me. " 

"And  what  will  Darby  Riley  say  to  that?" 
said  Billy. 

"  Silence ! "  said  the  little  man,  putting  OH 
a  mighty  severe  look,  "  I  did  not  bring  you 
here  with  me  to  ask  questions;"  and  without 
holding  further  argument,  he  began  saying  the 
queer  words  which  had  the  power  of  passing 


THE   KNITTER. 


179 


him  through  the  key-hole  as  free  as  air,  and 
which  Billy  thought  himself  mighty  clever  to 
be  able  to  say  after  him. 

In  they  both  went;  and  for  the  better  view- 
ing the  company,  the  little  man  perched  him- 
self up  as  nimbly  as  a  cock-sparrow  upon  one 
of  the  big  beams  which  went  across  the  house 
over  all  their  heads,  and  Billy  did  the  same 
upon  another  facing  him;  but  not  being  much 
accustomed  to  roosting  in  such  a  place,  his  legs 
hung  down  as  untidy  as  may  be,  and  it  was 
quite  clear  he  had  not  taken  pattern  after  the 
way  in  which  the  little  man  had  bundled  him- 
self up  together.  If  the  little  man  had  been  a 
tailor  all  his  life,  he  could  not  have  sat  more 
contentedly  upon  his  haunches. 

There  they  were,  both  master  and  man, 
looking  down  upon  the  fun  that  was  going 
forward;  and  under  them  were  the  priest  and 
piper — and  the  father  of  Darby  Riley,  with 
Darby's  two  brothers  and  his  uncle's  son — and 
there  were  both  the  father  and  the  mother  of 
Bridget  Rooney,  and  proud  enough  the  old 
couple  were  that  night  of  their  daughter,  as 
good  right  they  had  —  and  her  four  sisters, 
with  bran  new  ribbons  in  their  caps,  and  her 
three  brothers,  all  looking  as  clean  and  as 
clever  as  any  three  boys  in  Minister — and 
there  were  uncles  and  aunts,  and  gossips  and 
cousins  enough  besides  to  make  a  full  house  of 
it — and  plenty  was  there  to  eat  and  drink  on 
the  table  for  every  one  of  them  if  they  had 
been  double  the  number. 

Now  it  happened,  just  as  Mrs.  Rooney  had 
helped  his  reverence  to  the  first  cut  of  the  pig's 
head  which  was  placed  before  her,  beautifully 
bolstered  up  with  white  savoys,  that  the  bride 
gave  a  sneeze  which  made  every  one  at  table 
start,  but  not  a  soul  said,  "God  bless  us!" 
All  thinking  that  the  priest  would  have  done 
so,  as  he  ought,  if  he  had  done  his  duty,  no 
one  wished  to  take  the  word  out  of  his  mouth, 
which,  unfortunately,  was  pre-occupied  with 
pig's  head  and  greens.  And  after  a  moment's 
pause  the  fun  and  merriment  of  the  bridal  feast 
went  on  without  the  pious  benediction. 

Of  this  circumstance  both  Billy  and  his 
master  were  no  inattentive  spectators  from 
their  exalted  stations.  "  Ha !"  exclaimed  the 
little  man,  throwing  one  leg  from  under  him 
with  a  joyous  flourish,  and  his  eye  twinkled 
with  a  strange  light,  whilst  his  eyebrows  be- 
came elevated  into  the  curvature  of  Gothic 
arches — "  Ha  ! "  said  he,  leering  down  at  the 
bride,  and  then  up  at  Billy,  "  I  have  half  of 
her  now,  surely.  Let  her  sneeze  but  twice 
more,  and  she  is  mine,  in  spite  of  priest, 
mass-book,  and  Darby  Riley." 


Again  the  fair  Bridget  sneezed;  but  it  was 
so  gently,  and  she  blushed  so  much,  that  few 
except  the  little  man  took,  or  seemed  to  take, 
any  notice;  and  no  one  thought  of  saying, 
"  God  bless  us !" 

Billy  all  this  time  regarded  the  poor  girl 
with  a  most  rueful  expression  of  countenance; 
for  he  could  not  help  thinking  what  a  terrible 
thing  it  was  for  a  nice  young  girl  of  nine- 
teen, with  large  blue  eyes,  transparent  skin, 
dimpled  cheeks,  suffused  with  health  and  joy, 
to  be  obliged  to  marry  an  ugly  little  bit  of  a 
man,  who  was  a  thousand  years  old,  barring  a  day. 

At  this  critical  moment  the  bride  gave  a  third 
sneeze,  and  Billy  roared  out  with  all  his  might, 
"God  bless  us!"  Whether  this  exclamation 
resulted  from  his  soliloquy,  or  from  the  mere 
force  of  habit,  he  never  could  tell  exactly  him- 
self; but  no  sooner  was  it  uttered  than  the 
little  man,  his  face  glowing  with  rage  and 
disappointment,  sprung  from  the  beam  on 
which  he  perched  himself,  and  shrieking  out 
in  the  shrill  voice  of  a  cracked  bagpipe,  "  I 
discharge  you  my  service,  Billy  Mac  Daniel 
— take  that  for  your  wages,"  gave  poor  Billy  a 
most  furious  kick  in  the  back,  which  sent  his 
unfortunate  servant  sprawling  upon  hisface  and 
hands  right  in  the  middle  of  the  supper  table. 

If  Billy  was  astonished,  how  much  more  so 
was  every  one  of  the  company  into  which  he 
was  thrown  with  so  little  ceremony:  but  when 
they  heard  his  story,  Father  Cooney  laid  down 
his  Knife  and  fork,  cind  married  the  young 
couple  out  of  hand  with  all  speed;  and  Billy 
Mac  Daniel  danced  the  Rinka  at  their  wedding, 
and  plenty  did  he  drink  at  it  too,  which  was 
what  he  thought  more  of  than  dancing. 


THE    KNITTER. 

{From  Servian  Popular  Poetry.) 

The  maiden  sat  upon  the  hill, 

Upon  the  hill  and  far  away, 

Her  fingers  wove  a  silken  cord, 

And  thus  I  heard  the  maiden  say : 

"O,  with  what  joy,  what  ready  will, 

If  some  fond  youth,  some  youth  adored, 

Might  wear  tliee,  should  I  weave  thee  now! 

The  finest  gold  I'd  interblend, 

The  richest  pearls  as  white  as  snow. 

But  if  I  knew,  my  silken  friend, 

That  an  old  man  should  wear  thee,  I 

The  coarsest  worsted  would  inweave, 

Thy  finest  silk  for  dog-grass  leave, 

And  all  thy  knots  with  nettles  tie !" 

BOWRINO, 


180 


TO  MY  HONOURED  KINSMAN. 


TO  MY  HONOURED  KINSMAN, 

JOHN  DRYDEN, 

OF  CHESTERTON,   IN   THE  COUNTY  OF   HUNTINGDON,  ESQ. 

[John  Dryden,  born  in  Aldwinkle,  Northampton- 
shire. 1631 ;  died  iu  London,  1st  May,  17uO.  His  first 
poein  of  any  importance  was  written  on  the  occasion  of 
Cromwell's  death,  and  appeared  in  1658.  He  wrote  a 
number  of  plays,  The  Wild.  Gallant  being  the  first. 
His  Essay  on  Dramatic  Poesy  contained  the  first  ac- 
knowledgment, after  the  Restoration,  of  Shakspeare's 
supremacy.  He  was  sometime  laureate,  but  was  dis- 
possessed of  that  office  at  the  Revolution,  and  Shadwell, 
whom  he  had  bitterly  satirized,  was  appointed  in  his 
stead.  He  wrote  a  great  deal  of  prose  and  verse,  ori- 
ginal and  translated.  Of  his  works  the  most  widely 
known  in  modern  times  are  Absalom  and  Achitophel, 
a  political  and  controversial  poem,  first  published  in 
16S1 ;  The  Hind  and  the  Panther,  a  controversial  poem 
in  defence  of  the  Romish  Church,  1687;  and  Alexanders 
Feas',  which  is  regarded  as  one  of  the  grandest  composi- 
tions in  lyric  poetry.] 

How  bless'd  is  he,  who  leads  a  conntry  life, 
Unvex'd  with  anxious  cares,  and  void  of  strife ! 
Who  studying  peace,  and  shunning  civil  rage, 
Enjoy'd  his  youth,  and  now  enjoys  his  age ; 
All  who  deserve  his  love,  he  makes  his  own ; 
And,  to  be  loved  himself,  needs  only  to  be  known. 

Just,  good,  and  wise,  contending  neighbours  come 
From  your  award,  to  wait  their  final  doom ; 
And,  foes  before,  return  in  friendship  home. 
Without  their  cost,  you  terminate  the  cause; 
And  save  the  expense  of  lung  litigious  laws; 
Where  suits  are  traversed  ;  and  so  little  won 
That  he  who  conquers,  is  but  last  nndone ; 
8nch  are  not  your  decrees ;  but  so  design'd, 
The  sanction  leaves  a  lasting  peace  behind; 
Like  your  own  soul,  serene ;  a  pattern  of  your  mind. 

Promoting  concord,  and  composing  strife, 
Lord  of  yourself,  uncumber'd  with  a  wife ; 
Where,  'for  a  year,  a  month,  perhaps  a  night, 
Long  penitence  succeeds  a  short  delight : 
Minds  are  so  hardly  match'd,  that  even  the  first, 
Though  pair'd  by  Heaven,  in  paradise,  were  cui-sed. 
For  man  and  woman,  thongh  in  one  they  grow, 
Yet,  first  or  last,  return  again  to  two. 
He  to  God's  image,  she  to  his  was  made : 
So,  farther  from  the  fount,  the  stream  at  random  stray' d. 

How  could  he  stand,  when  put  to  double  pain, 
He  must  a  weaker  than  himself  sustain ! 
Each  might  have  stood  perhaps;  but  each  alone; 
Two  wrestlers  help  to  pull  each  other  down. 

Not  that  my  verse  would  blemish  all  the  fair ; 
But  yet,  if  tome  be  bad,  'tis  wisdom  to  beware ; 
And  better  shun  the  bait,  than  struggle  in  the  snare. 
Thus  have  you  shunn'd,  and  shun  the  married  state, 
Trusting  as  little  aa  you  can  to  fa_e. 


No  porter  guards  the  passage  of  your  door; 
To  admit  the  wealthy,  and  exclude  the  poor; 
For  God,  who  gave  the  riches,  gave  the  heart 
To  sanctify  the  whole,  by  giving  part ; 
Heaven,  who  foresaw  the  will,  the  means  has  wrought, 
And  to  the  second  son,  a  blessing  brought ; 
The  first-begotten  had  his  father's  share; 
But  you,  like  Jacob,  are  Rebecca's  heir. 

So  may  your  stores,  and  fruitful  fields  increase; 
And  ever  be  you  blessed,  who  live  to  bless. 
As  Ceres  sow'd,  where'er  her  chariot  flew ; 
As  Heaven  in  deserts  rain'd  the  bread  of  dew, 
So  free  to  many,  'to  relations  moat, 
You  feed  with  manna  your  own  Israel-'hosl. 

With  crowds  attended  of  your  ancient  race, 
You  seek  the  champaign  sports,  or  sylvan  chase : 
With  well  breathed  beagles  you  surround  the  wood ; 
Even  then,  industrious  of  the  common  good; 
And  often  have  you  brought  the  wily  fox 
To  suffer  for  the  firstlings  of  the  flocks; 
Chased  even  amid  the  folds;  and  made  to  bleed, 
Like  felons,  where  they  did  the  murd'rons  deed. 
This  fiery  game,  your  active  youth  maintain'd : 
Not  yet  by  years  extinguished,  though  rcstrain'd  ; 
You  season  still  with  sports  yonr  serious  hours ; 
For  age  but  tastes  of  pleasures,  youth  devours. 
The  hare,  in  pastures  or  in  plains  is  found, 
Emblem  of  human  life,  who  runs  the  round; 
And,  after  all  his  wandering  ways  are  done, 
His  circle  fills,  and  ends  where  he  begun, 
Just  as  the  setting  meets  the  rising  sun. 

Thus  princes  ease  their  cares ;  but  happier  he, 
Who  seeks  not  pleasure  through  necessity, 
Than  such  as  once  on  slippery  thrones  were  placed: 
And  chasing  sigh  to  think  themselves  are  chased. 

So  lived  our  sires,  ere  doctors  leam'd  to  kill, 
And  multiplied  with  theirs,  the  weekly  bill, 
The  first  physicians  by  debauch  were  made ; 
Excess  began,  and  sloth  sustains  the  trade. 
Pity  the  generous  kind  their  cares  bestow 
To  search  forbidden  truths ;  (a  sin  to  know ;) 
To  which,  if  human  science  could  attain, 
The  doom  of  death,  pronounced  by  God,  were  vain. 
In  vain  the  Leech  would  interpose  delay : 
Fate  fastens  first,  and  vindicates  the  prey. 
What  help  from  art's  endeavours  can  we  have  I 
Gibbons  but  guesses,  nor  is  sure  to  save : 
But  Maw-us  sweeps  whole  parishes,  and  peoples  every 

grave; 

And  no  more  mercy  to  mankind  will  use 
Than  when  he  robb'd  and  mnrder'd  Maro's  muse. 
Wouldst  thou  be  soon  despatch'd,  and  perish  whole? 
Trust  Maui-us  with  thy  life,  and  M—lb-rn  with  thy  soul. 

By  chase  our  long-lived  fathers  earn'd  their  food; 
Toil  strung  the  nerves,  and  purified  the  blood; 
But  we,  their  sons,  a  pamper"d  race  of  men, 
Are  dwindled  down  to  threescore  years  and  ten. 
Better  to  hunt  in  fields,  for  health  nn bought, 
Than  fee  the  doctor  fur  a  nauseous  draught. 


TO  MY   HONOURED  KINSMAN. 


131 


The  wise,  for  cure,  0:1  exercise  depend ; 
God  never  made  hi*  work,  for  man  to  mend. 

The  tree  of  knowledge,  ones  in  Ed  n  placed, 
Was  easy  found,  but  was  forbid  the  taste ; 
O,  had  our  grands:  re  walk'd  without  his  wife, 
lie  first  had  sought  the  better  plant  of  life  ! 
Now,  both  are  lost:  yet,  wandering  in  the  dark, 
Physicians,  for  the  tree,  hive  found  the  bark : 
They,  labouring  for  relief  of  human  kind, 
With  sharpen'd  bight  some  remedies  may  find: 
The  apothecary  train  is  whoJy  blind. 
From  files,  a  r.iudom-reei^e  they  take, 
And  many  deaths  of  one  prescription  make. 
Garth,  generous  as  his  muse,  prescribes  and  gives ; 
The  shopman  sells  ;  and  by  destruction  lives. 
Ungrateful  tribe  !  who,  like  the  viper's  brood, 
From  medicine  issuing,  suck  their  mother's  blood, 
Let  these  ob3y  ;  and  let  the  learn' d  prescribe ; 
That  man  may  die.  without  a  double  bribe: 
Let  them,  but  under  their  superiors,  kill; 
When  doctors  first  have  sigu'd  the  bloody  bill: 
He  'scapes  the  best,  who,  nature  to  repair, 
Draws  physic  from  the  fields,  in  draughts  of  vital  air. 

You  hoard  not  health,  for  your  own  private  use ; 
But  on  the  public  spend  the  rich  produce. 
When,  often  urged,  unwilling  to  be  great, 
Your  country  cills  you  from  your  loved  retreat, 
And  gerids  to  senates,  charged  with  common  care, 
Which  none  more  shuns ;  and  none  can  better  bear. 
Where  could  they  find  another  form'd  so  fit, 
To  poise,  with  solid  sense,  a  spritely  wit ! 
Were  these  both  wanting,  fas  they  both  abound) 
Where  could  so  firm  integrity  be  found? 

Well-born,  and  wealthy;  wanting  no  support, 
You  steer  betwixt  the  country  and  the  court; 
Nor  gratify  whate'er  the  great  desire, 
Nor  grudging  give,  what  public  needs  require. 
Part  must  be  left,  a  fund  when  fues  invade ; 
And  part  employ'd  to  roll  the  watery  trade : 
Even  Canaan's  happy  land,  when  worn  with  toil, 
Required  a  Sabbath-year  to  mend  the  meagre  soil. 

Good  senators,  (and  such  as  you,)  so  give, 
That  kings  may  be  supplied,  the  people  thrive. 
And  he,  when  want  requires,  is  truly  wise, 
Who  slights  not  foreign  aid*,  nor  over-buys; 
But,  on  our  native  strength,  in  time  of  need,  relief. 
Mtmstn-  was  bought,  we  boast  not  the  success ; 
Who  fights  for  gain,  for  greater  makes  his  peace. 

Our  foes,  compell'd  by  need,  have  peace  etnbrac'd: 
The  i>eace  both  parties  want,  is  like  to  last : 
Which,  if  secure,  securely  we  may  trade ; 
Or,  not  secure,  should  never  have  been  made. 
Safe  in  ourselves,  while  on  ourselves  we  stand, 
The  sea  is  ours,  and  that  defend*  the  land. 
Be,  then,  the  naval  stores  the  nation's  care, 
New  ship*  to  build,  and  batter'd  to  repair. 

Observe  the  war,  in  every  annual  course ; 
Wiiat  has  been  done,  was  done  with  Bi-Uisli  force. 


Namur  subdued,  is  England'!  palm  alone; 
The  rest  besieged  ;  but  we  constrain' d  the  town : 
We  saw  the  event  that  follow'd  our  success ; 
France,  though  pretending  arms,  pursued  the  peace: 
Obliged,  by  one  sole  treaty,  to  restore 
What  twenty  years  of  war  had  won  before. 
Enough  for  Etimpe  lias  our  Albion  fought : 
Let  us  enjoy  the  peace  our  blood  has  bought. 
When  once  the  Persian  king  was  put  to  flight, 
The  weary  Macedoiis  refused  to  fight : 
Themselves  their  own  mortality  confess'd ; 
And  left  the  son  of  Jove  to  quarrel  for  the  rest. 

Even  victors  are  by  victories  undone ; 
Thus  Hannibal,  with  foreign  laurels  won. 
To  Carthage  was  recall'd,  too  late  to  keep  his  own. 
While  sore  of  battle,  while  our  wounds  are  green, 
Why  should  we  tempt  the  doubtful  dye  again  2 
In  wars  renew'd,  uncertain  of  success, 
Sure  of  a  share,  as  umpires  of  the  peace. 

A  patriot,  both  the  king  and  country  serves; 
Prerogative,  and  privilege  preserves : 
Of  each,  our  laws  the  certain  limit  show, 
One  must  not  ebb,  nor  t'other  overflow : 
Betwixt  the  prince  and  parliament  we  stand; 
The  barriers  of  the  state  on  either  hand : 
May  neither  overflow,  for  then  they  drown  the  land> 
When  both  are  full,  they  feed  our  bless'd  abode ; 
Like  those  that  water'd  once  the  paradise  of  God. 

Some  overpoise  of  sway,  by  turns  they  share ; 
In  peace  the  people,  and  the  prince  in  war ; 
Consuls  of  moderate  power  in  calms  were  made; 
When  the  Gauls  came,  one  sole  dictator  eway'd. 

Patriots,  in  peace,  assert  the  people's  right ; 
With  noble  stubbornness  resisting  might : 
No  lawless  mandates  from  the  court  receive, 
Nor  lend  by  force ;  but  in  a  body  give. 
Such  was  your  generous  grandsire ;  free  to  grant 
In  parliaments,  that  weigh'd  their  prince's  want: 
But  so  tenacious  of  the  common  cause, 
As  not  to  lend  the  king  against  hid  laws. 
And,  in  a  loathsome  dungeon  doom'd  to  lie, 
In  bonds  retained  his  birthright  liberty, 
And  shamed  oppression,  till  it  set  him  free. 

O  true  descendant  of  a  patriot  line, 
Who.  while  thou  shar'st  their  lustre,  lend'st  them  thina, 
Vouchsafe  this  picture  of  thy  soul  to  see ; 
'Tis  so  far  good  as  it  resembles  thee : 
The  beauties  to  the  original  I  owe; 
Which,  when  I  mis».  my  own  defects  I  show. 
Nor  think  the  kindred-muses  thy  disgrace; 
A  poet  is  not  born  in  every  i*o». 
Two  of  a  house,  few  ages  can  afford; 
One  to  perform,  another  to  record. 
Praise-worthy  actions  are  by  thee  emV.raced ; 
And  'tis  my  praise,  to  make  thy  praises  last. 
For  even  when  death  dissolves  our  human  frame. 
The  soul  returns  to  Heaven,  from  whence  it  came; 
Earth  keeps  the  body,  verse  preserves  the  fame. 


182 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  SORKOW. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  SORROW. 

[D'Arcy  Wentworth  Thompson,  of  Cumberland 
parentage  and  connections,  born  April,  1829,  on  the 
river  Derwent  in  Tasmania ;  graduated  at  Cambridge, 
1S52,  elected  in  the  same  year  to  a  classical  mastership 
in  the  Edinburgh  Academy,  and  nominated  in  18t>t  to 
the  professorship  of  Greek  in  the  Gal  way  College  of  the 
Queen's  University,  Ireland.  He  has  successfully  em- 
ployed his  pen  in  prose  and  verse,  and  his  writings 
present  us  with  profound  thought  in  simple  and  attrac- 
tive language.  He  is  the  author  of  Nursery  ffonsente, 
or  Rhymes  without  Reason;  Fun  and  Earnest,  or  Rhymes 
vi  h  Reason;  ancient  Ltaves,  or  R  ndenngs  of  Greek  and 
Latin  Authors  in  English  Verse;  Da:/-dreaMS  of  a  School- 
master—a,  delightful  book,  full  of  suggestive  thought; 
SdltsAUici,  or  tin  Wit  and  Wisdom  of  Atlteniun  Drama; 
Wayside  Thoughts,  A  CMtctivn  of  Lectures;  and  &ala 
Itovie,  or  a  Ladder  to  Latin.  He  has  also  contributed  to 
Ma.Cidillaris  Magazine;  and  for  the  interesting  series  of 
miscellaneous  sketches  published  by  Edmonston  and 
Douglas,  Edinburgh,  under  the  title  of  Odds  and  JSiids, 
he  wrote  the  Wayside  Thoughts  of  an  A»f>jihojihiloso^htr, 
from  which  we  take  the  following  essayette.] 

For  Heaven's  sake,  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground, 
And  tell  sad  stories  about  everything, 
And  see  which  one  amongst  us  shall  weep  first; 
And  from  the  tangled  skein  of  circumstance 
Let's  weave  a  web  of  dreariest  argument, 
And  make  us  comfortably  miserable. 

Listen!  how  the  rain  is  pattering  against  the 
window- panes  !  and  how  the  rain  drives  down 
the  smoke ! — and  this  is  spring  weather;  the 
season  belauded  by  our  old  poets,  in  phrases 
borrowed  from  southern  singers  and  suited  only 
to  southern  climes.  I  wish  M'e  had  one  of  the 
old  conventional  fellows  here;  with  permission 
to  treat  him  as  we  thought  fit.  It  would  be  a 
pleasure  to  stick  him  in  the  water-butt,  and 
watch  him  from  behind  the  window-blinds. 

But,  after  all,  this  weather  is  better  than 
what  an  east  wind  brings;  the  wind  as  cold  and 
cutting  as  ill-natured  wit;  the  wind  that  blows 
with  such  a  penetrative  cheerlessness,  that, 
while  your  sunny-side  is  baking,  your  shady- 
side  is  down  at  zero.  You  are,  beneath  its  in- 
fluence, a  walking  allegory  of  French  toast: 
you  have  your  nose  eqxiatorially  at  home,  and 
your  nadir  in  a  Siberian  exile.  So  it  is:  no 
blessings  come  unmixed :  from  the  cup  of 
enjoyment  we  never  drink  pleasure  neat.  The 
sweet,  delicious  wind  that  blows  from  the  warm 
west,  too  often  deluges  us  and  our  new  hats 
with  rain;  and,  if  the  sun  shine  brightly  over- 
head, it  is  too  often  through  the  icy  wind- 
medium,  that  comes  surcharged  with  rheuma- 
tism and  bad  temper  from  the  uncomfortable 
east. 


But  what  does  it  matter  to  be  kept  indoors? 
Could  we  walk  abroad,  should  we  in  an  after- 
noon's ramble  cast  eyes  upon  a  single  happy 
face?  Let  us  take  a  long  retrospect  of  our  own 
lives,  and  try  to  recall  a  week  of  uninterrupted 
happiness.  If  he  is  to  be  pitied  that  has  no  such 
green  oasis  to  look  back  upon,  how  much  more 
pitiable  the  wretch  that  looks  back  upon  the  plea- 
sant spot  and  knows  it  may  never  be  revisited ! 

Let  the  rain  fall.  'Tis  a  good  thing  to  be 
kept  indoors.  Let  us  be  idle  for  a  day,  and 
hold  aloof  from  the  busy,  restless  world.  Let 
us  strip  off  oar  work-a-day  clothes,  and  bare  us 
to  the  skin,  and  wallow  in  luxurious  laziness. 
Let  the  rain  fall.  We  are  thrown  upon  an 
unquiet  age  of  competitive  rivalry:  we  keep 
the  bow  eternally  on  the  stretch :  we  are  in  a 
continuous  state  of  training:  we  have  ceased  to 
perspire,  from  the  lack  of  superfluous  flesh  and 
comfortable  fat.  We  are  eliminating  all  lym- 
phatic temperaments  from  out  the  population: 
ere  long  there  will  not  be  a  man  among  us  to 
weigh  fifteen  stone.  Plethora  and  apoplexy 
are  waxing  rare:  not  a  bad  thing  of  itself:  but 
in  their  stead  have  come  heart-disease  and  a 
spectral  troop  of  shadowy  nervous  maladies. 
We  begin  life  as  our  fathers  ended  it.  We 
start  our  house-keeping  with  the  luxuries  that 
to  them  were  the  well-won  rewards  of  half  a 
century's  unambitious  toil.  We  are  uncon- 
tentable  hangangerels.  We  are  uneasy  dogs, 
for  ever  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  door. 

But  wherefore  all  this  discontent,  and  hurry, 
and  pressing  forward  ?  Were  it  not  a  pleasure 
to  pause  awhile ;  to  stand  at  ease ;  to  lie  upon 
our  oars,  and  hear  the  rippling  of  the  water ; 
to  spin,  like  a  top,  in  a  dizzy,  quasi-motionless, 
sound  sleep?  were  it  not  sweet  to  leave  behind 
us  the  busy  factory,  the  humming  town,  the 
many-languaged  harbour;  and  to  loll  at  ease 
upon  one's  solitary  sofa;  or,  better  still,  on  the 
green  grass  of  beautiful  Dalmeny;  and  to  listen 
— with  ear  and  soul  to  listen?  And  to  what? 
Why,  to  the  birds,  or  to  anything.  Heaven 
knows  what  music  we  should  hear  ! 

The  school-boy  longs  for  the  holidays ;  the 
maiden  for  her  bridal  morn;  the  student  for 
his  fellowship;  the  father  for  the  manhood  of 
his  boys.  To  reach  a  distant  bourn,  we  are 
ever  ready  to  leap  the  interval;  forgetting  that 
the  interval  may  be  a  momentous  fraction  in 
our  little  life-total.  It  may  be,  indeed,  that 
all  intervals  of  life  are  not  equally  valuable. 
What  infinitesimal  price  should  we  set  upon  a 
year  of  hobbydyhoyhood  ?  What  imagination 
could  appraise  an  hour  spent  rapturously  in 
speaking  and  listening  to  love-nonsense? 

It  is  also  possible  that  the  speed  as  well  as 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  SORROW. 


183 


the  value  of  time  is  only  relative;  and  that 
clocks,  with  all  their  humdrum  regularity,  are 
but  respectable  delusions.  There  are  times 
with  us  all,  when  in  a  concave  mirror  we  see  a 
minute  distorted  into  long  hours;  and,  again, 
in  the  convex  glass  the  long  hours  dwindle  to 
a  point.  When  summoned  by  peremptory  duty 
from  a  warm  bed  upon  a  keen,  frosty  morning, 
how  precious  are  the  last  five  minutes  of  snoozle- 
dom !  You  live  introspectivcly  all  through 
them :  you  chew  the  cud  of  your  own  cosiness. 
Then  comes  the  wrench:  in  a  moment  you  are 
in  the  cold  tub,  careless  and  forgetful  of  repose, 
So,  when  the  hour  is  come  for  rising  after  our 
long  life-sleep,  we  beg  another  hour  in  vain. 
A  minute  yet  remains:  only  one.  Each  second 
is  an  epoch;  divided  into  distinct  and  awful 
intervals.  The  senses  are  preternaturally 
quickened,  as  under  the  first  influence  of  ether, 
and  you  hear  the  beating  and  the  pulsing  of 
some  great  inner-world  machinery;  the  terrible 
ticking  of  some  eternal  timepiece.  The  hour 
strikes,  and  in  a  moment  we  are  up  to  our 
necks  in  water ;  in  the  water  of  a  cold,  deep 
river:  in  a  moment  we  have  forgotten  all  the 
past,  even  the  friends  that  now  are  weeping  at 
the  bed-side:  in  a  few  more  moments  they  will 
have  forgotten  us,  to  be  themselves  in  due  turn 
forgotten. 

The  pebble  on  the  beach  neither  lives  nor 
dies;  and  we  can  but  imperfectly  describe  the 
conditions  of  its  actuality  by  negational  terms. 
The  trees  of  the  forest  lead  an  unconscious  life 
through  leafy  ages:  they  toil  not,  neither  do 
they  spin:  in  the  pleasant  spring- tide  they  don 
gradually  their  green  robes:  in  the  rich  and 
sad  autumn  they  pass  slowly  into  beautiful 
decay ;  slowly  and  noiselessly,  like  dreams. 
The  lower  type  of  animals  most  probably  have 
no  anticipatory  fears  of  death,  but  may  pass 
almost  painlessly  into  inanimate  matter  out  of 
semi-vegetable  life. 

I  passed  yesterday,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Leith,  a  public  slaughter-house.  A  flock  of 
sheep  were  going  one  by  one  up  an  inclined 
gangway  into  an  upper  room  of  unpremeditated 
death.  They  were  pushing  each  other  upwards, 
to  the  yelping  music  of  two  collie-dogs,  in  ap- 
parent eagerness  to  follow  their  leader.  As 
each  in  turn  would  stand  upon  the  gangway's 
upper  ledge,  too  soon  he  would  solve  the  secret 
of  the  horrible  charnel-house.  Too  soon;  and 
too  late.  For  Ba-ba  is  the  cry  behind;  which 
interpreted  would  mean:  "Move  on,  and  let  us 
see  what's  to  be  seen."  They  would  see  it  soon 
enough,  poor  bleating  simpletons ;  and  then 
there  would  be  the  last  Ba-ba  and  the  babbling 
o'  green  fields. 


The  higher  animals,  and  especially  such  as 
have  been  highly  educated  by  companionship 
with  man,  have  unquestionably  some  dim  idea 
of  the  last  change.  Man  alone  is  prescient  of 
all  its  horrible  concomitants;  can  predict  with 
a  fearful  accuracy  the  gradations  of  the  hum- 
bling analysis.  In  the  face  of  these  terrible 
considerations,  may  we  not  expect  some  com- 
fort to  be  derived  from  reflections  upon  our 
spiritual  nature? 

Comfort  ? — comfort  there  might  have  been, 
but  for  our  suicidal  propensity  of  turning  bless- 
ings into  curses.  We  may  safely  premise  that, 
in  respect  of  philanthropy,  any  0113  sect  of 
Christians  is  in  advance  of  any  body  whatsoever 
of  other  religionists.  Yet  there  is  not  a.  single 
sect  of  Christians,  but  that  peoples  its  particu- 
lar hell  with  by  far  the  greater  portion  of  the 
outer-lying  world,  and  no  inconsiderable  por- 
tion of  its  own  adherents.  So  covetous  are  we 
of  pain;  so  greedy  of  sorrow;  so  dissatisfied 
with  the  diseases  and  mischances  of  life,  and 
the  death  that  inevitably  crowns  all,  that  in 
our  most  serious  and  meditative  moods  we  revel 
in  prefigurements  of  eternal,  unutterable,  and 
all  but  universal  misery.  From  our  little 
noisy  pulpits  we  wag  wise  pows,  and  condole 
in  an  exhilarating  way  with  our  credulous  con- 
gregations on  the  steady  approach  of  our  com- 
mon doom.  We  build  in  air  a  world-wide,  spiri- 
tual scaffold,  and  erect  thereon  innumerable 
gibbets,  and  comfort  one  another  with  detailed 
speculations  on  the  phases  of  the  never-ending 
strangulation.  We  stand  upon  our  little  plat- 
forms of  life  and  time,  and  over  the  edge  peer 
curiously  and  shudderingly  into  the  dark,  outer 
void;  and  through  the  magnifying  lenses  of 
fear  and  imagination  descry  therein,  or  seem 
to  descry,  ghastly  and  hideous  forms  of  physical 
and  spiritual  decomposition. 

And  it  were  not  so  very  sad  that  we  should 
do  all  this,  if  the  doing  so  made  us  in  the 
least  sad.  But  the  unspeakable  sadness  of  it 
all  is,  that  the  process  gives  a  general  though 
undefined  thrill  of  pleasurable  satisfaction. 

In  the  days  when  men  would  stand  together 
in  the  shade  and  argue  a  dog's  tail  off,  it  was 
a  favourite  occupation  of  the  old  philosophers 
to  define,  chronologically,  geographically,  and 
circumstantially,  the  conditions  of  perfect  hap- 
piness. We  have  no  time  now-a-days  for  such 
idle  speculations.  We  are  pulling  down  our 
old  barns  and  building  greater  ones :  we  are 
grovelling  on  the  ground  before  a  golden  image, 
like  that  set  up  of  old  in  the  plain  of  Babylon  r 
we  are  searching  for  a  vulgar  and  ignoble  phi- 
losopher's stone.  But  supposing  we  could  give 
the  time  and  pains  required  for  the  consider*- 


184 


THE  COMFORTER. 


tion  of  the  old  question,  should  we  find  the 
problem  an  easy  one? 

Childhood  cannot  be  esteemed  happy,  as 
being  an  age  that,  apart  from  the  troubles  of 
teething,  is  a  continued  lamentation  and  a  cry. 
Educational  traditions  sit  as  a  nightmare  on 
the  clastic  spirits  of  boyhood.  Youth  and  early 
manhood  bring  heat  of  blood  and  immature 
judgment  to  cope  with  the  perilous  temptations 
of  the  unknown  world.  Over  professional  life 
in  manhood  broods  an  universal  Grundyism; 
and  commercial  life  is  crenellated  by  a  corrod- 
ing eovetousness.  We  might  look  to  religion 
for  consolation,  were  it  not  that  the  usually 
received  doctrines  represent  divinity  as  sterner 
than  the  sternest  of  all  human  judges,  and 
mankind  as  a  set  of  hopeless  and  incorrigible 
scoundrels.  We  are  sailing  in  a  shut-up  ark 
over  a  wide  sea,  fathomless  and  shoreless. 
Send  out  Hope  like  a  dove,  and  it  will  come 
back  with  no  green  leaf  in  its  bill.  Let  us 
open  the  narrow  door-way,  the  one  window, 
and  end  our  misery  by  a  plunge  into  the  deep 
sea.  Nay :  we  are  so  numerous  and  disorderly 
a  crew,  that  we  should  only  trample  each  other 
to  death  in  the  effort  to  get  out.  Let  us  sit 
still  in  the  cabin  and  wait  the  end.  What? 
are  we  to  go  drifting  on  and  on,  until  we  are 
starved  or  suffocated ;  until  our  melancholy 
bark,  with  its  ghastly  crew  of  sitting  skeletons, 
is  picked  up  and  opened  by  mariners  of  the 
new  order;  mariners  to  whom  are  reserved  the 
new  heavens  and  the  new  earth,  after  the  sub- 
sidence of  our  troubled  waters?  Heaven  for- 
bid !  sit  still,  and  wait  in  hope.  One  day  or 
other  we  shall  come  bump  upon  Mount  Ararat. 
Yea,  surely ;  one  day  or  other. 

We  are,  indeed,  weak  creatures,  moving  ever 
onwards  beneath  some  irresistible  pressure 
towards  an  inevitable  gulf.  From  time  to 
time  we  catch  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  happiness; 
but  misfortunes  cling  to  us  like  burrs;  and 
sorrow  clothes  us  with  a  Nessus-shirt  of  pain. 
In  the  morning  we  are  green  and  grow  up: 
in  the  evening  we  are  cut  down,  dried  up,  and 
withered.  But  is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead? 
Hath  philosophy  no  anodyne,  and  religion  no 
herb  of  healing? 

Let  us  cease  complaining;  and  consider 
awhile  the  dignity,  and  majesty,  and  sublimity 
of  our  human  nature.  Let  us  draw  comfort, 
as  in  a  bucket,  from  the  well  of  tears.  For 
our  weakness  is  our  strength,  and  our  shame 
our  glory.  It  is  the  unspeakable  sadness  of 
our  common  lot  that  gives  fiat  lot  whate'er  of 
sweetness  and  of  beauty  it  can  call  its  own. 
The  angels  in  heaven,  amid  their  monotone  of 
grand,  eternal  praise,  must  look,  not  with 


pity,  but  with  an  almost  envying  wonderment 
at  the  spectacle  of  a  son  weeping  beside  his 
dead  mother,  or  of  a  father  staring  down  into 
the  new  grave  of  his  dead  son. 

Good  men  have  told  us  that  the  Infinite 
made  himself  finite,  and  that  the  Omnipotent 
divested  himself  of  power,  to  save  a  ruined 
world.  They  have  only  given  us  half  the 
reason.  If  a  world  could  not  be  saved  by  less 
than  such  a  sacrifice,  by  only  such  a  sacrifice 
could  Divinity  win  love.  The  Hand  that 
guides  the  stars  and  wields  the  thunderbolt 
might  enforce  obedience  and  strike  terror;  but 
Omnipotence  is  not  omnipotent  in  respect  o( 
love.  Nay,  even  goodness  is  not  lovable ;  but 
admirable  only,  unless  it  be  crowned  with  sor- 
row and  girdled  round  about  with  infirmity. 

Divinity  was  not  perfect  until  when  the 
Lord  wept:  there  was  a  culmination  of  God- 
head when  the  Man-Christ  was  agonized  in 
the  garden ;  when  his  sweat  was  as  it  were 
great  drops  of  blood  falling  to  the  ground. 
There  went  a  shudder  of  awful  joy  throughout 
the  universe,  when  the  dying  lips  said, — "It 
is  finished — ." 

So  grand  a  thing  is  human  sorrow:  so  grand, 
and  terrible,  and  sublime,  and  holy. 


THE   COMFORTER. 

Oh !  thou  who  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear, 
How  dark  this  world  would  be, 

If,  when  deceived  and  wounded  here, 
We  could  not  fly  to  thee ! 

The  friends  who  in  our  sunshine  live, 

Wheu  winter  comes  are  flown ; 
And  he  who  has  but  tears  to  give, 

Must  weep  those  tears  alone ; 

But  thou  wilt  heal  that  broken  heart, 
Which,  like  the  plants  that  throw 

Their  fragrance  from  the  wounded  part, 
Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 

When  joy  no  longer  soothes  or  cheers, 

And  even  the  hope  that  threw 
A  moment's  sparkle  o'er  our  tears, 

Is  dimm'd  and  vanish'd  too ; 

Oh  who  would  bear  life's  stormy  doom, 

Did  not  thy  wing  of  love 
Come  brightly  wafting  through  the  gloom 

One  peace-branch  from  above. 

Then  sorrow,  touch'd  by  thee,  grows  brighi 
With  more  than  rapture's  ray ; 

As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 
We  never  saw  by  day. 

THOMAS  MOORS. 


PEGGY    NOWLAN. 


185 


PEGGY  NOWLAN. 

[John  Banim,  born  1SOO,  died  1st  August,  1842.  A 
native  of  Ireland,  ho  successfully  illustrated  the  char- 
acter and  history  of  his  countrymen  in  a  number  of 
powerful  novels.  In  conjunction  with  his  elder  brother, 
Michael,  be  produced  the  Tula  of  the  O'Hara  Family, 
which  became  very  popular.  His  principal  novels  are : 
Croppy,  a  Tale  or  17'JS;  The  Bit  »'  \Vnti,i';  lioynt  Water; 
John  Doe;  and  The  Mayor  of  Wind-Gey).  He  also  wrote 
the  tragedy  of  Damon  and  Pi/thiax.  His  writings  deal 
with  turbulent  passions  and  incidents,  but  they  are 
always  interesting  and  elicit  the  sympathy  of  the  reader. 
The  following  is  from  the  O'Hara  Talcs,  second  series.] 

Late  in  the  second  morning  of  her  journey, 
the  coach  upset  within  about  a  stage  of  Dublin, 
and  Peggy  Nowlan  was  violently  thrown  off, 
and  deprived  of  sense  by  the  shock.  When 
she  recovered,  she  found  herself  in  a  smoky- 
looking  room,  dimly  lighted  by  a  single  dipped 
candle  of  the  smallest  size.  The  walls  were 
partly  covered  with  decayed  paper,  that  hung 
off,  here  and  there,  in  tatters.  There  were  a  few 
broken  chairs  standing  in  different  places,  and 
in  the  middle  of  the  apartment  a  table,  that 
had  once  been  of  decent  mould,  but  that  now 
bore  the  appearance  of  long  and  hard  service, 
supporting  on  its  drooping  leaves  a  number 
of  drinking  glasses,  some  broken  and  others 
capsized,  while  their  slops  of  liquor  remained 
fresh  around  them.  Peggy  was  seated  with 
her  back  to  the  wall;  she  felt  her  head  support- 
ed by  some  one  who  occasionally  bathed  her 
temples  with  a  liquid  which,  by  the  odour  it 
sent  forth,  could  be  no  other  than  whisky;  and 
if  she  had  been  an  amateur,  Peggy  might  have 
recognized  it  as  pottheen.  "  My  God,  where 
am  I?"  looking  confusedly  around,  was  her 
first  exclamation.  "  You're  in  safe  hands, 
Peggy  Nowlan,"  she  was  answered  in  the  tones 
of  a  woman's  voice:  "an'  I'm  glad  to  hear 
you  spake  at  last." 

Turning  her  head,  she  observed  the  per- 
son who  had  been  attending  her.  The  woman 
was  tall  and  finely-featured,  about  fifty,  and 
dressed  pretty  much  in  character  with  the  room 
and  its  furniture;  that  is,  having  none  of  the 
homely  attire  of  the  country  upon  her,  but 
wearing  gay  flaunting  costume,  or  rather  the 
remains  of  such;  and  there  was  about  her  air 
and  manner  a  bold  confidence,  accompanied 
by  an  authoritative  look  from  her  large  black 
eyes,  that  told  a  character  in  which  the  mild 
timidity  of  woman  existed  not.  Yet  she  smiled 
on  Peggy,  and  her  smile  was  beautiful  and 
fascinating.  "  How  do  you  know  me,  good 
woman?"  again  questioned  our  heroine,  for 


we  believe  she  is  such.  "  Oh,  jist  by  chance, 
afther  a  manner,  miss ;  onct,  when  I  went  down 
to  your  counthry  to  see  a  gossip  o'  my  own,  the 
neighbours  pointed  you  out  to  me  as  the  come- 
liest  colleen  to  be  seen  far  an'  wide;  an'  so,  Miss 
Peggy,  fear  nothing ;"  for  Peggy,  as  she  looked 
about  her,  and  at  the  woman,  did  show  some 
terror;  "an*  I'm  glad  in  the  heart  to  see  any 
one  from  your  part,  where  there's  some  kind 
people,  friends  o'  mine;  an'  for  their  sakes, 
an'  the  sake  o'  the  ould  black  hills  you  cum 
from,  show  me  the  man  that  daares  look  crooked 
at  you." 

This  speech  was  accompanied  by  such  soft- 
ness of  manner,  that  Peggy's  nervousness  less- 
ened. She  gained  confidence  from  the  presence 
of  one  of  her  own  sex  looking  so  kindly  on  her, 
and  though  years  had  been  busy  with  her  fine 
features,  looking  so  handsome  too.  Her  next 
question  was,  naturally,  a  request  to  be  informed 
how  she  came  into  her  present  situation.  ' '  You 
were  brought  here  jist  to  save  your  life,"  an- 
swered the  woman;  "a  son  o'  mine  coming 
along  the  road  from  Dublin,  saw  the  coach 
tumble  down;  he  waited  to  give  it  a  helping 
hand  up  again;  and  when  it  druv  away — " 
"And  has  it  gone  off,  and  left  me  behind?" 
interrupted  Peggy,  in  great  distress.  "  Of  a 
thruth,  ay  has  it,  my  dear."  "  What  then  am 
I  to  do? — "  "  Why,  you  must  only  stay  where 
you  are,  wid  me,  until  the  day,  and  you're 
welcome  to  the  cover  o'  th'  ould  roof,  an'  what- 
ever comfort  I  can  give  you;  and  when  the 
day  comes  we'll  look  out  for  you,  Miss  Peggy, 
a-roon.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  when  the  coach 
dhrew  off  again,  my  son  was  for  hurrying  home, 
when  he  heard  some  one  moaning  inside  o'  the 
ditch;  an'  he  went  into  the  field,  an'  there 
was  a  man  lying,  jist  coming  to  his  senses,  an' 
you  near  him,  widout  any  sense  at  all;  an'  when 
the  man  got  better,  my  son  knew  him  for  an 
old  acquaintance;  and  then  they  minded  you, 
and  tuck  you  up  between  them;  an'  sure  here 
you  are  to  the  fore."  "  It  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary I  should  continue  my  journey  to-night," 
said  Peggy.  "  If  you're  for  Dublin,  child, 
you  can  hardly  go;  it's  a  thing  a  friend  can't 
hear  of. "  Peggy  reflected  for  a  moment.  Her 
usual  caution  now  told  her,  what  her  first  sus- 
picions had  suggested,  that,  in  some  way  or 
other,  the  house  was  an  improper  one,  and 
perhaps  that  good -nature  had  not  been  the 
only  motive  in  conveying  her  to  it.  The  wo- 
man's last  words  seemed  to  show  a  particular 
determination  that  she  should  remain.  It 
would  be  imprudent,  then,  to  express  a  design 
to  go  away:  she  might  be  detained  by  force. 
Nor  would  she  suffer  herself  to  become  affected 


185 


PEGGY    XOWLAN. 


by  her  fears,  lest  she  might  incapacitate  her- 
self for  escaping  by  stealth.  Prompted  by 
growing  suspicion,  she  stole  her  hand  to  her 
bosom  to  search  for  her  purse;  it  was  gone: 
and  Peggy  became  confirmed  in  her  calcula- 
tions, though  not  more  apparently  shaken  by 
her  fears.  "  I  had  a  small  hand-basket,"  she 
said,  "containing  a  few  little  articles,  and 
my  money  for  the  road;  it's  lost,  of  course,  and 
I  am  left  penniless;  if  I  go  to  the  spot  where 
the  coach  fell,  maybe  I  could  find  it."  "We 
can  go  together,"  said  the  woman,  "  if  you  are 
able  to  walk  so  far."  Peggy  had  made  the 
proposal,  not  in  hopes  of  recovering  any- 
thing, but  that  she  might  be  afforded  a  chance 
of  walking  away;  if,  indeed,  the  story  of  the 
coach  having  driven  on  proved  to  be  true. 
Now,  however,  she  was,  in  consistency,  obliged 
to  accept  the  attention  of  her  officious  protec- 
tor; and  the  woman  and  she  walked  to  the 
road  along  a  narrow,  wild  lane,  on  each  side 
of  which  a  few  old  decayed  trees  and  bushes 
shook  their  leafless  branches  in  the  wintry 
wind,  while  the  footing  was  broken  and  miry, 
and  overgrown  by  weeds  and  long  grass.  It 
seemed  to  have  been  a  winding  avenue  to  the 
house  she  had  left,  once  planted  with  rows  of 
trees,  when  the  mansion  was  better  tenanted 
and  in  better  repair,  but  which  had  disappeared 
from  time  to  time  beneath  the  axe  or  the  saw 
of  the  marauder. 

Arrived  at  the  spot  required,  she  commenced 
aseemingly  careful  search:  but,  finding  nothing, 
returned  at  the  continued  urgency  of  the  wo- 
man, who  linked  her  closely,  to  the  house  they 
had  quitted.  Ere  Peggy  re-entered  she  took 
a  survey  of  the  fabric:  it  was,  like  everything 
around  it  and  within  it,  a  ruin.  She  could 
see  that  it  had  been  a  good  slated  house,  two 
stories  high,  but  that  in  different  places  the 
slates  were  now  wanting ;  indeed  she  trod, 
near  the  threshold,  upon  their  fragments, 
mixed  with  other  rubbish.  Some  of  the  win- 
dows were  bricked  up,  some  stuffed  through 
their  shattered  panes  with  wisps  of  straw  and 
old  rags;  and  of  the  lower  ones,  the  shutters, 
which  were,  however,  attached  to  the  wall, 
outside  strong  iron  bars,  hung  off  their  hinges, 
and  napped  in  the  blast. 

Again  entering  the  room  in  which  she  had 
first  found  herself,  two  men  appeared  seated. 
Peggy,  in  something  like  the  recurrence  of  a 
bad  dream,  thought  she  recognized  in  one  of 
them  the  air  and  figure  of  the  person  who,  on 
a  late  and  fearful  occasion,  had  stood  so  near 
her  in  the  Foil  Dhuiv.  But  as  she  did  not 
feel  herself  entitled  to  draw  any  certain  deduc- 
tions from  feature,  complexion,  or  even  dress, 


Peggy,  after  a  moment's  faltering  pause,  strug- 
gled to  assure  herself  that  this  misgiving  was 
but  a  weakness  of  her  agitated  mind,  and  firmly 
advanced  to  the  chair  she  had  before  occupied. 
The  second  man  was  very  young,  his  person 
slight,  and  twisted  into  a  peculiar  bend  and 
crouch  as  he  sat;  his  face  pale  and  sharp,  re- 
sembling that  of  the  woman  who  called  herself 
his  mother;  and  in  the  sidelong  glance  of  his 
cold  jetty  eye  there  lurked  a  stealth,  an  inquiry, 
and  a  self-possession,  as,  in  reply  to  Peggy's 
curtsy  and  her  look  of  observance,  he,  in  turn, 
observed  her,  and  gave,  slowly  and  measuredly, 
his  "  Sarvent,  miss."  He  and  his  companion 
sat  close  to  the  drooping  table.  Two  of  the 
glasses  that  had  been  capsized  now  stood  up- 
right, and  were  frequently  filled  from  a  bottle 
of  whisky,  of — as  one  might  augur  from  the 
smell— home  manufacture.  The  person  whose 
first  view  had  startled  Peggy,  made  more  free 
with  the  beverage  than  the  other ;  the  pale 
young  man  visibly  avoiding  the  liquor;  but 
often  filling  for  his  friend,  and  urging  him  to 
drink  bumpers. 

"  Go,  Phil,  my  boy,"  resumed  the  old  wo- 
man, addressing  the  pale  lad,  "  take  Ned  and 
yourself  up-stairs;  an'  the  bottle  wid  you;  you 
must  have  the  hot  wather,  when  it's  ready,  and 
the  sugar  along  wid  it:  this  young  woman  and 
myself  '11  stay  together." 

Phil  arose,  taking  the  bottle  and  glasses; 
he  was  sidling  out  of  the  room  before  his  com- 
panion, when,  at  a  renewed  signal  from  the  wo- 
man, he  hung  back,  allowed  the  other  to  stag- 
ger out  first,  and  then  he  and  she  paused 
together,  beyond  the  threshold  of  the  room, 
in  the  passage,  where  Peggy  could  hear  them 
exchange  a  few  earnest  though  cautious  whis- 
pers. "An1  now,  Peggy  Nowlan,"  resumed 
the  woman,  coming  back  and  reseating  her- 
self, "  as  you  don't  seem  to  like  the  whisky, 
you  must  have  whatever  the  house  can  give 
you."  "  I  would  like  some  tey,  ma'am. "  "Then, 
sure  enough,  you'll  get  it;  we  won't  be  long 
lighting  the  fire  an'  biling  the  wather,  and 
we'll  take  our  tey  together. " 

There  were  some  embers  dimly  gleaming  in 
the  blackened  fireplace,  to  which  the  woman 
added  wood  and  chips,  that,  by  blowing  with 
her  mouth,  rs  she  knelt,  soon  blazed;  and, 
according  to  her  promise,  a  dish  of  tea,  not 
badly  flavoured,  was  manufactured,  of  which, 
with  much  seeming  hospitality  and  kindness, 
the  hostess  pressed  her  young  guest  to  partake. 
Peggy  felt  thankful,  and  strove  to  compel  her- 
self to  feel  at  ease  also:  but,  amid  the  smilea 
and  blandness  of  her  entertainer,  there  wer« 


PEGGY    NOWLAN. 


187 


moments  when  her  thin  and  bloodless,  though 
handsome  lips,  compressed  themselves  to  a  line 
so  hard  and  heartless, — moments  when  a  shade 
of  deep  abstraction  passed  over  her  brow,  and 
when  her  eyes  dulled  and  sunk  into  an  expres- 
sion so  disagreeable,  that  the  destitute  girl 
internally  shivered  to  glance  upon  her.  The 
momentary  changes  did  not,  however,  seem  to 
concern  her.  She  argued  that  they  rather 
intimated  an  involuntary  turn  of  thought  to 
some  other  person  or  subject.  The  woman 
never  looked  on  her  without  a  complacent 
smile;  and  it  was  after  her  getting  up  occasion- 
ally, and  going  to  the  door  of  the  room,  as  if 
to  catch  the  sound  of  voices  from  above,  that 
her  countenance  wore  any  bad  character.  But, 
whatever  might  have  been  passing  in  her  mind, 
Peggy  prudently  resolved  not  to  allow  her 
hostess  to  perceive  that  she  observed  these 
indications  of  it.  Her  glances  were,  therefore, 
so  well  timed,  and  so  quick,  that  they  could 
not  be  noticed;  and  her  features  so  well  mas- 
tered, as  always  to  reflect  the  easy  smile  of  her 
companion.  Her  manners,  too,  she  divested 
of  every  trait  of  alarm  or  doubt;  and  even  the 
tones  of  her  voice  were  tutored  by  Peggy  into 
an  even,  pleased  cadence;  and  the  questions 
she  asked,  and  the  topics  she  started,  calcu- 
lated to  lull  all  suspicion. 

As  part  of  her  plan,  she  would  show  no  un- 
easiness to  retire;  and  it  was  not  until  the  woman 
herself  offered  to  attend  her  to  her  bed,  that 
Peggy  rose  from  her  chair.  She  was  conducted 
out  of  the  little,  half- ruined  parlour,  or  kitchen, 
a  few  paces  along  the  passage,  and  then  a  few 
steps  up  a  rent  and  shaking  staircase,  into  a 
mean  sleeping-chamber,  of  which  the  door  faced 
the  passage:  the  stairs  continuing  to  wind  to 
the  right,  to  the  upper  rooms  of  the  house. 
As  they  passed  into  the  chamber,  it  was  with 
difficulty  Peggy  prevented  herself  from  draw- 
ing back,  when  she  perceived  that  the  patched 
door  had  bolts  and  a  padlock  on  the  outside, 
but  no  fastening  within.  Still,  however,  she 
controlled  her  nerves,  and  displayed  to  her 
attendant  no  symptom  of  the  apprehension 
that  filled  her  bosom.  "I'm  sorry  the  poor 
house  doesn't  afford  a  betther  an'  a  handsomer 
lodgin'  for  you,  Miss  Peggy,"  said  the  woman, 
as  both  stumbled  about  the  half-boarded  floor 
of  the  room:  "  but  you'll  jist  take  the  will  for 
the  deed:  an'  so,  good-b'ye,  an'  a  pleasant 
night's  sleep  to  you."  "Can't  you  oblige  me 
with  the  candle?"  asked  Peggy,  as  her  hostess 
was  about  to  take  it  away.  "  I  would,  tvith  a 
heart  an'  a  half,  if  it  was  to  spare;  but  I'll 
have  nothing  else  to  light  me  to  bed,  an'  help 
me  to  set  things  to  rights  for  the  morning;  for 


the  matther  o'  that,  the  good  moon  shines  so 
bravely  through  the  window,  and  I  believe 
through  another  little  place  in  the  loft  here, 
that  you'll  be  able  to  say  your  prayers  an'  go 
to  bed  by  it,  Miss  Peggy;  so  bannockth-lath;" 
and  she  finally  took  the  candle  away,  securing 
the  door  on  the  outside,  and  leaving  Peggy 
1  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  filthy  chamber. 

The  moon  did,  indeed,  stream  in  upon  the 
floor  as  well  through  the  shattered  window,  as, 
|  first,  through  a  breach  in  the  slates  of  the  house- 
;  roof,  and  then  down  the  broken  boards  of  the 
I  room  overhead.     Peggy  looked  round  for  her 
bed,  and  saw,  in  a  corner,  a  miserable  sub- 
stitute for  one,  composed  of  straw  laid  on  the 
floor,  and  covered  with  two  blankets.     There 
was  no  chair  or  table,  and  feeling  herself  weak, 
she  cautiously  picked  her  steps  to  the  corner, 
and  sat  down  on  this  cheerless  couch. 

The  motive  of  her  conduct  hitherto  had  been 
to  hide  her  feelings,  so  as  to  throw  the  people 
of  the  house  off  their  guard,  and  eventually 
create  for  herself  an  opportunity  to  escape  to 
the  main  road,  and  thence  to  the  next  cabin 
at  hand.  In  furtherance  of  her  project,  she 
now  begged  of  God  to  strengthen  her  heart, 
and  keep  her  in  a  steady  mind;  and  after  her 
zealous  aspiration,  Peggy  continued  to  think 
of  the  best  part  to  act.  At  once  she  resolved 
not  to  stir  in  her  chamber  until  the  woman 
and  the  two  men  should  seem  to  have  retired 
to  sleep — if,  indeed,  it  was  doomed  that  they 
were  to  do  so  without  disturbing  her.  In  case 
of  a  noise  at  the  door,  she  determined  to  force 
her  way  through  the  crazy  window,  and  trust- 
ing herself  to  God,  jump  from  it  to  the  ground, 
which,  she  argued,  could  not  be  many  feet 
under  her,  as  Peggy  had  not  forgotten  to  count 
the  steps  while  she  ascended  from  the  earthen 
passage  to  her  present  situation.  If,  after  long 
watching,  she  could  feel  pretty  sure  that  no 
evil  was  intended  to  her  during  the  night,  still 
she  planned  to  steal  to  the  window,  open  it 
with  as  little  noise  as  possible,  drop  from  it, 
and  try  to  escape. 

More  than  an  hour  might  have  passed,  when 
she  heard  a  noise,  as  if  of  two  persons  stumbling 
through  the  house ;  it  came  nearer,  and  two 
men,  treading  heavily  and  unevenly,  entered 
a  room  next  to  here,  and  only  divided  from 
her  by  a  wooden  partition,  which  here  and 
there  admitted  the  gleams  of  a  light  they  bore. 
Without  any  rustling,  Peggy  applied  her  eye 
to  one  of  the  chinks,  and  gained  a  full  view  of 
the  scene  within.  She  saw  the  person  she  so 
much  dreaded,  led  by  the  pale  young  man 
towards  such  a  bed  as  she  occupied;  the  one 
overcome  by  intoxication;  the  other,  cool,  col- 


133 


PEGGY    NOWLAN. 


lected,  and  observant.  With  much  grumbling, 
and  many  half-growled  oaths,  the  drunken 
fellow  seemed  to  insist  on  doing  something 
that  the  lad  would  not  permit,  and  at  length 
Peggy  heard  an  allusion  to  herself.  "Go  to 
sleep,  Xed:  you're  fit  for  nothing  else  to-night; 
there's  your  bed,  I  tell  you,"  said  the  young 
man,  forcing  him  to  it.  "  I  say,  Master  Phil, 
stoopid,  I'll  have  one  word  with  that  wench 
before  I  close  a  winker,"  replied  Xed;  "that 
wench,  I  say — hie! — what  I  picked  up  on  the 
road;  and  why  the  devil  should  I  bring  her 
but  to  chat  a  bit  with  her?  Your  house  isn't 
fit  for  much  better,  you  know,  Master  Phil; 

and, my  eyes  but —       "  Lie  down,  you 

foolish  baste,"  interrupted  his  companion,  push- 
ing him  down  on  the  straw.  "  I'll  stand  none 
of  that  nonsense  neither,  "continued  the  ruffian, 
scrambling  about;  "and  it's  no  use  talking;  I'll 

see  her,  by ;  I'll  see  the  wench  as  I  brought 

to  this house:  and  don't  you  go  to  tell 

me,  now,  as  how  it's  all  a  hum,  and  that  I 
brought  no  such  body  into  it;  I'm  not  so  cut 
but  I  remember  it:  so  fair-play,  Master  Phil; 
she  must  be  accounted  for:  none  of  your  old 
mother's  tricks  will  do,  now.  I  am  not  to  be 

done,  by ;  first  and  last,  that's  my  word :  hie ! 

— I'll — hie!"  and  he  lay  senseless.  The  pale 
young  man  watched  him  like  a  lynx,  until, 
after  some  moments,  his  growling  changed  into 
a  loud  snore,  and  there  was  no  doubt  but  he  slept 
soundly.  Then  he  stepped  softly  to  him,  knelt 
on  one  knee,  took  out  of  his  breast  a  large  pistol, 
thrust  it  under  his  own  arm,  and  finally  emptied 
his  pockets  of  a  purse  and  some  crumpled  papers, 
Arising,  with  continued  caution,  he  glanced 
over  the  latter  close  by  the  candle,  and  Peggy 
saw  his  features  agitated.  The  next  moment  he 
Btole  out  of  the  room,  barred  the  door  outside, 
and  she  heard  his  stealthy  step,  betrayed  by  the 
creaking  boards,  about  to  pass  her  chamber. 

At  this  moment,  however,  another  step, — 
Peggy  supposed  that  of  the  woman, — met  his 
from  the  lower  part  of  the  house,  and  both 
stopped  just  at  her  frail  though  well-secured 
door.  "Well?"  questioned  the  woman,  in  a 
sharp  whisper:  "you  pumped  him?  and  soaked 
him?  and  touched  the  lining  of  his  pockets? 

Did  we  guess  right?"     "We  did,  by  ," 

answered  the  young  man;    "the  rascal 

has  peached,  by  the ;  his  very  shuffling 

•with  me  showed  it  at  once;  but  here's  the 
proof:  here's  an  answer  from  Mr.  Long  to  his 
offer  to  put  him  on  his  guard  against  the  swag 
at  Long  Hall  this  blessed  night;  and  here's 
another  letter,  from  Lunnon,  closing  with 
another  offer  of  his  to  set  the  poor  private  for 
the  Bow  Street  bull-dogs." 


They  had,  during  these  words,  been  perhaps 
speaking  to  each  other  at  some  little  distance; 
for  their  whispers,  now  that  Peggy  supposed 
them  to  have  come  close  together,  were  lost  on 
her  aching  ear,  though  she  still  heard  the  hissing 
sounds  in  which  the  conversation  was  carried 
on.  A  considerable  time  elapsed  while  they 
thus  stood  motionless  outside  her  door:  at 
length  they  moved;  seemed  about  to  part;  and, 
at  parting,  a  few  more  sentences  became  audible. 

Go,  then,"  said  the  woman,  "an"  let  us  lose 
no  time:  nothing  else  can  be  done;  poor  Maggy 
is  to  be  saved  from  the  treachery  of  the  Lunnon 
sneak,  if  there  was  no  one  else  consarned  in 
the  case;  speed,  Phil;  make  sure  o'  the  horn- 
hafted  Lamprey  that  you'll  find  on  the  dresser: 
I'll  meet  you  at  his  dour  with  a  light  and  a 
vessel.  Are  you  sure  he  sleeps  sound  enough?" 
"  There  is  only  the  one  sleep  more  that  can  be 
sounder,  "replied  Phil;  and  Peggy  heard  them 
going  off. 

In  panting  terror  she  listened  for  their  steps 
again  passing  her  door:  nor  had  she  to  listen 
long.  Slowly  and  stealthily,  and  with  heavy 
breathings,  or  a  suppressed  curse  at  the  creak- 
ing boards,  they  separately  came  up.  In  a 
moment  after  she  heard  them  undo  the  fasten- 
ings of  the  inside  room,  and,  fascinated  to  the 
coming  horror,  as  the  bird  is  to  the  reptile's 
glance,  her  eye  was  fixed  to  a  chink,  ere  the 
light  they  carried  afforded  her  a  renewed  view 
of  the  victim's  chamber. 

The  woman  first  entered,  bearing  the  candle 
in  one  hand  and  in  the  other  a  basin  which 
held  a  cloth.  Her  face  was  now  set  in  the 
depth  of  the  bad  expression  Peggy  had  seen  it 
momentarily  wear  below  stairs;  and  she  was 
paler  than  usual,- though  not  shaking  or  trem- 
bling. The  lad  followed,  taking  long  and 
silent  strides  across  the  floor,  while  his  knife 
gleamed  in  his  hand,  and  his  look  was  ghastly. 
They  made  signs  to  each  other.  The  woman 
laid  down  the  candle  and  the  basin,  and  tucked 
up  the  sleeves  of  her  gown  beyond  her  elbows. 
She  again  took  up  the  basin,  laid  the  cloth  on 
the  floor,  stole  close  to  the  straw  couch,  knelt 
by  it,  and  held  the  vessel  near  the  wretch's 
head.  Her  companion  followed  her  and  knelt 
also.  He  unknotted  and  took  off,  with  his 
left  hand,  the  man's  neckcloth.  As  it  was 
finally  snatched  rather  briskly  away  the  wearer 
growled  and  moved.  He  never  uttered  a  sound 
more. 

Peggy  kept  her  eye  to  the  chink  during  the 
whole  of  this  scene.  She  could  not  withdraw 
it.  She  was  spell-bound ;  and  perhaps  an  in- 
stinctive notion  that  if  she  made  the  slightest 
change  in  her  first  position,  so  as  to  cause  the 


PEGGY    NOWLAN. 


189 


slightest  rustle,  her  own  life  must  be  instantly 
sacrificed — perhaps  this  tended  to  hold  her 
perfectly  still.  She  witnessed,  therefore,  not 
only  the  details  given,  but  the  concluding  de- 
tails which  cannot  be  given.  Even  when  the 
murder  was  done  she  durst  not  remove  her  eye 
until  the  woman  and  lad  had  left  the  chamber; 
so  that  she  was  compelled  to  observe  the  re- 
volting circumstance  of  washing  the  blankets 
and  the  floor,  and  other  things  which  again 
must  not  be  noticed.  It  is  certain  that  moral 
courage  and  presence  of  mind  never  won  a 
greater  victory  over  the  impulses  of  nature 
than  was  shown  in  this  true  situation  by  this 
lonely  and  simple  girl.  Often,  indeed,  there 
arose  in  her  bosom  an  almost  irresistible  incli- 
nation to  cry  out — at  the  moment  the  neck- 
cloth was  removed,  when  the  sleeping  man 
muttered  and  turned,  she  was  scarcely  able  to 
keep  in  her  breath  ;  yet  she  did  remain  silent. 
Not  even  a  loud  breathing  escaped  her.  All 
was  over,  and  she  a  spectatress  of  all,  and  still 
she  mastered  herself;  and  although,  so  far  as 
regarded  her,  the  most  home  cause  for  agita- 
tion finally  occurred  as  the  murderers  were 
about  to  withdraw. 

"He'll  touch  no  blood-monejr  now,"  whis- 
pered the  woman;  "an"  we  may  go  to  our 
beds,  Phil,  for  the  work  is  done  well ;  so  come 
away — but  stop  ;  high-hanging  to  me  if  I  ever 

thought  of  that  young in  the  next  room: 

an',  for  anything  we  know,  she  may  be  watch- 
ing us  all  this  time."  "If  you  think  so, 
mother,  there's  but  one  help  for  it,"  observed 
the  lad.  "A  body  could  peep  through  the 
chinks  well  enough, "resumed  the  female  mon- 
ster; "but,  on  a  second  thought,  Phil,  d'you 
think  it's  in  the  nature  of  a  simple  young 
counthry  girl  like  her  to  look  at  what  was  done 
without  givin*  warning?"  "May  be  not; 
come,  try  if  she's  asleep  anyhow;  she  can't 
bam  us  there,  mother."  "Come,"  and  they 
left  the  chamber.  The  moment  they  withdrew, 
Peggy  stretched  herself  on  her  couch,  threw  a 
blanket  over  her  person,  closed  her  eyes,  and 
breathed  as  if  fast  asleep.  Yet  it  was  with 
many  doubts  of  her  own  ability  to  go  success- 
fully through  this  test  that  she  listened  for  the 
noise  of  unbarring  her  door.  The  creeping 
steps  approached,  and  her  heart  nearly  failed 
her.  A  bolt  was  shot,  and  her  brain  swam. 
But  again  the  assassins  seemed  to  hesitate, 
and  again  she  heard  their  whispers.  "Stop," 
said  the  lad,  "she  must  be  sound  asleep,  as 
you  say  ;  it's  not  to  be  thought  she  could  look 
on  and  stand  it."  "That's  my  own  notion," 
replied  the  woman.  "  Then  if  we  rouse  her 
at  this  time  o'  night  wid  those  marks  about 


us,"  meaning  the  marks  on  their  hands  and 
clothes,  "  why,  it'll  be  tellin'  our  own  sacret, 
when  we  might  hould  our  tongue."  "Yes, 
an'  only  makin'  more  o'  the  same  work  for 
ourselves  when  we  have  done  enough  of  it." 
"  Besides,  she'll  be  to  the  fore  in  the  mornin', 
and  then  we  can  cross- hackle  her  on  the  head 
of  it ;  an',  if  she  shows  any  signs  of  knowin' 
more  than  we  want  her  to  know — why,  it  can 
be  a  good  job  still."  "  You  spake  rason;  an', 
sure  enough,  she'll  be  to  the  fore;  because  I 
have  a  notion  o'  my  own  that  we  ought  to  keep 
her  fast  till  the  poor  private  an'  Maggy  sees 
her;  they'll  want  to  have  a  word  wid  her,  may 
be :  so,  by  hook  or  crook,  she's  to  pass  another 
day  and  night  in  the  house."  "Let  us  go 
sleep,  then,  mother;  an'  you  must  get  me  a 
little  wather."  "Yes,  a-vich;  but  I  don't 
think  myself  wants  much  o'  the  sleep  for  this 
night,  anyhow." 

They  left  Peggy's  door,  and  she  was  thus 
saved  the  test  her  soul  shrank  from.  In  some 
time  after  their  steps  became  silent,  she  lay 
on  her  straw  with  clasped  hands  and  eyes 
turned  to  heaven,  offering  the  most  fervent 
thanks  for  her  preservation.  The  winter  morn- 
ing broke;  all  seemed  quiet  in  the  house;  and 
she  ventured  to  sit  up  and  think  again.  Her 
neighbourhood  to  the  mangled  body  occurred 
to  her,  and  delirium  began  to  arise.  She  had 
recourse  to  her  prayers  for  help  and  strength, 
and  they  did  not  fail  her.  Hour  after  hour 
passed  away,  still  she  kept  herself  employed, 
either  by  communions  with  her  God,  or  by 
laying  out  her  mind  to  meet  the  trials  she  had 
yet  to  encounter.  They  would  watch  her,  they 
had  said,  in  the  morning;  she  was  able  to  will 
and  determine  that  the  investigation  should 
be  vain:  Peggy  felt  that  she  could  defeat  them. 
They  intended  to  induce  or  force  her  to  spend 
day  and  night  where  she  was;  against  this  plan 
she  also  attempted  to  lay  a  counter-plot. 

It  might  be  nine  o'clock  when  she  heard 
them  stirring  about.  But,  at  the  first  sound, 
she  lay  stretched  on  her  bed;  and  this  proved 
a  good  precaution.  One  of  them  walked  softly 
up  the  stairs;  then  into  the  next  room;  and 
afterwards,  close  to  the  partition,  by  her  couch; 
and,  as  Peggy  judged  by  the  hard  breathing 
through  the  chinks,  seemed  to  watch  if  she 
slept.  She  was  now  able  to  give  every  appear- 
ance of  sleep  to  the  eye  of  the  observer.  After 
a  few  moments  they  were  together  in  the  room, 
and  she  heard  their  whispers,  and  then  the 
noise  of  trailing  out  the  body. 

For  about  another  hour  they  left  her  undis- 
turbed. At  length  the  door  was  opened  and 
the  woman  entered  her  chamber.  Peggy  still 


190 


PEGGY    NOWLAN. 


pretended  to  sleep,  showing,  however,  some 
signs  of  the  restlessness  that  attends  on  being 
disturbed  from  sleep  without  our  being  fully 
aroused.  The  hideous  visitor  stooped  down 
and  stirred  her.  Peggy  bore  the  touch  of  that 
hand  on  her  shoulder  without  wincing  in  any 
way.  The  woman  stirred  her  again,  and  she 
seemed  gradually  and  naturally  to  become 
awakened.  "  Musha,  it's  the  good  sleep  that's 
on  you,  a  colleen,''  said  the  woman,  as  she  sat 
up.  "Yes,  indeed,  I'm  not  used  to  be  with- 
out sleep  so  long,  and  I  had  none  before  this 
since  I  left  the  mountains,"  answered  Peggy. 
"Is  it  very  late?  but  I  don't  care  much  about 
that,  as  there's  no  use  in  my  starting  from  you 
till  the  coach  comes  again  to  night,  and  gives 
me  a  seat  for  Dublin."  "We'll  tell  you  all  j 
about  that  by-and-by :  get  up  now,  my  woman,  i 
an'  break  your  fast:  you  ought  to  be  hungry."  | 
"And  I  am  very  hungry,  and  able  to  help 
myself  out  of  anything  you  lay  before  me." 

The  woman  led  her  down-stairs.  A  good 
breakfast  was  prepared.  Peggy  seemed  to  eat 
with  a  keen  appetite ;  but  she  continued  to 
slip  the  bread  she  had  cut  into  her  large  coun- 
try pockets.  The  young  man  entered:  she 
bade  him  a  smiling  good-morrow.  He  hoped 
she  had  passed  a  good  night:  she  answered 
promptly  and  easily.  "It's  an  odd  question 
I'm  for  axin',"  he  continued,  "but  I  thought 
I  heard  strange  noises  in  a  room  next  to  yours 
last  night — did  you?''  With  the  consciousness 
that  the  eyes  of  both  were  watching  her  face 
for  a  change  of  expression,  Peggy  baffled  the  in- 
quiry. "  It's  said  this  ould  house  is  haunted," 
rejoined  the  woman,  "an"  that's  the  ghost's 
room."  "My  faith  isn't  strong  in  ghosts," 
said  Peggy,  smiling;  "but  I'm  glad  you  did 
not  tell  of  it  before  I  went  to  bed,  or  I  might 
be  kept  waking." 

A  pause  ensued,  during  which  she  knew  that 
her  catechists  were  consulting  each  other  by 
looks  and  nods. 

"  Why  don't  you  ax  afther  your  friend  that 
helped  to  bring  you  to  us  last  night?"  pursued 
the  lad.  "  I  was  thinking  of  him,  but  said  to 
myself  he  was  in  bed,  maybe ;  and  as  he's  no 
kith  or  kin  o'  mine,  only  a  stranger  met  on 
the  road,  I  didn't  believe  it  would  be  right  for 
a  young  lone  woman  like  me  to  be  asking  so 
closely  after  him."  "  He's  not  in  his  bed," 
said  the  lad.  fixing  his  eye.  She  stood  his 
glance.  "No,"  resumed  the  woman,  "but 
gone  his  road  at  the  first  light  this  mornin'." 
"Why,  then,  I'm  sorry  for  his  going."  "  How's 
that?"  asked  the  lad.  "Because  I'm  left 
•without  a  farthing  in  the  world,  and  I  thought 
that,  as  he  looked  to  be  a  dacent  man,  maybe 


he'd  lend  me  a  few  shillings  to  take  me  on  to 
Dublin ;  and  now  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
under  heaven."  "  Never  make  yourself  uneasy 
about  that,"  remarked  the  hostess:  "  for  if  you 
thought  he  looked  so  like  a  dacent  body,  he 
thought  you  looked  like  a  hansome  colleen,  as 
you  are;  an'  for  a  token,  hearin'  o'  your  loss 
by  the  coach,  he  left  us  the  very  thing  you're 
talking  about,  to  give  you  when  you'd  get  up." 
"Yes,  he  left  this  wid  me  for  you,"  pursued 
the  other,  handing  some  silver,  "and  just  his 
word  to  take  care  an'  have  as  much  ready  to 
pay  him  in  the  next  place  he  an"  you  are  to 
see  ach  other." 

As  he  gave  the  money  and  spoke  these  words 
very  significantly,  he  again  fixed  her  eye ;  but 
Peggy  allowed  him  no  advantage.  With  many 
professions  of  thanks  to  her  chance  benefactor 
she  quietly  put  up  the  supposed  gift.  Perhaps 
they  became  fully  assured  that  they  had  no- 
thing to  fear,  for  they  soon  stopped  questioning 
her.  "  I'll  pay  him,  with  hearty  thanks,  sure 
enough,"  she  continued,  recurring  to  the  topic, 
"and  sooner  than  he  thinks,  maybe.  I  have 
only  to  go  to  Dublin,  to  the  Brazen-Head, 
where  my  father  stops,  when  I'll  have  money 
enough ;  and  after  a  word  there,  I'm  to  pass 
your  door  to-morrow,  about  the  night-fall, 
when  I'll  be  axin'  a  night's  lodgin'  from  you 
again;  and  I  can  jest  lave  the  honest  man's 
shillings  in  your  hands,  and  you'll  give  'em  to 
him  the  next  time  he  calls,  in  Peggy  Nowlan's 
name,  and  her  best  wishes  along  with  'em. " 

The  day  wore  awajr  in  common  topics,  and 
she  showed  no  anxiety  to  depart.  She  said 
she  grew  hungry  for  her  dinner ;  and,  when  it 
came  before  her,  still  seemed  to  make  a  hearty 
meal.  No  living  creature  came  to  the  house 
during  the  day :  but  she  could  understand  that 
the  person  called  Maggy,  and  who  she  con- 
cluded was  her  wretched  cousin  Maggy  Nowlan, 
and  the  other  person  called  "the  private," 
were  expected  during  the  night;  as  also  a  num- 
ber of  "  the  customers  "  from  Dublin. 

Nothing  had  yet  been  said  to  deter  her  from 
proceeding  to  town  in  the  night-coach,  which, 
as  usual,  was  to  pass  about  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  She  often  alluded  to  its  hour  of 
passing  by,  and  they  did  not  make  an  observa- 
tion. This  gave  her  courage;  and,  after  the 
night  fell — for  Peggy,  still  to  avoid  a  shadow 
of  suspicion,  would  not  motion  to  stir  in  the 
daylight — she  said,  inadvertently,  andyetM-ith 
some  natural  show  of  anxiety  to  proceed  in 
her  interrupted  journey — "  Maybe  I  couldn't 
get  a  seat  in  it,  an'  what  should  I  do  then? 
But  maybe  I  ought  to  take  the  road  some  time 
before  ye  expect  it  to  come  up,  so  that,  when 


PEGGY    NOWLAX. 


191 


it  overtakes  me,  if  I  get  the  place,  well  and 
good ;  and  if  I  don't,  why  I  could  be  so  far  on 
my  way,  and  sure  of  walking  the  six  or  seven 
miles  more  to  Dublin  by  the  morning,  anyhow; 
for  I  must  be  there  in  the  morning:  what 
brings  me  up  is  to  get  a  good  lot  of  money 
from  my  father,  that'll  be  wanted  at  home  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  at 
farthest;  and  so,  ye  see,  honest  people,  I'm 
beholding  to  be  soon  back  and  forward,  and, 
as  I  said,  sleeping  in  your  house,  on  my  way 
to  the  country,  by  to-morrow  night  anyhow." 

They  said  little  in  reply  to  this ;  but  Peggy 
believed  they  again  exchanged  some  glances 
and  signs,  while  her  head  was  purposely  held 
down;  and  then  they  retired  to  whisper  at  the 
outward  door.  Fervently  did  she  pray,  al- 
though the  prayer  involved  an  uncharitable 
contradiction,  that,  influenced  by  the  hope  of 
plunder  she  had  held  out,  their  resolves  not  to 
let  her  depart  for  the  night  might  be  changed. 
And  perhaps  her  plan  took  effect. 

In  a  short  time  they  rejoined  her;  and  after 
a  few  ordinary  remarks,  said,  by  the  way,  that 
she  might  do  well  to  "take  a  start  of  the  road, 
afore  the  coach,  just  as  she  was  a  saying  of  it; 
and  they  wished  her  safe  to  Dublin,  anyhow: 
and  they  hoped  she  would  keep  her  promise, 
and  come  see  them  on  her  way  home  again. " 

Without  discovering  any  extraordinary  joy 
at  this  concession,  Peggy  bid  them  a  steady 
and  cordial  good-b'ye;  engaged  her  bed  for  the 
next  night;  and  it  was  not  till  the  very  moment 
she  was  crossing  the  murderous  threshold  that 
she  feared  her  face  and  fluttered  step  might 
have  given  intimation  of  the  smothered  emo- 
tions that  battled  in  her  heart. 

But,  again  befriended  by  her  extraordinary 
presence  of  mind,  she  checked  her  rising  ec- 
stasy, and  trod,with  a  sober  and  wayfaring 
step  down  the  dark,  tangled,  and  miry  lane. 
When  fairly  launched  on  the  broad  road  her 
breast  experienced  great  relief;  yet  still  she 
kept  her  demure  pace,  neither  faltering,  nor 
looking  back  nor  about  her,  nor  yet  sure  of 
the  policy  of  rushing  into  the  first  cabin  she 
might  meet.  Her  heart  whispered  that  the 
people  of  the  abominable  house  might  have 
noticed  her  parting  struggle,  and,  after  a  little 
reflection,  would  perhaps  follow  her  and  put 
her  to  another  trial. 

To  her  left,  as  she  walked  along,  waa  some 
rather  high  ground,  falling  down  to  the  road, 
little  cultivated,  and  crowded  with  furze  and 
briers.  A  straggling  path  ran  through  it, 
parallel  to  the  road,  but,  at  some  distance, 
and,  she  believed,  led  to  the  ione  house  in  the 
"  bosheen."  Her  eye  kept  watching  this  path 


1  every  step   she  took.     The  moon  shone  full 

upon  it  so  as  to  enable  her  to  discern  any  near 

'  object.     Peggy,  her  head  down,  and  her  re- 

|  gards  not  visibly  occupied,  soon  caught  a  figure 

!  rapidly  striding  along  the  path,  through  the 

I  clumps  of  furze  and  briers.     As  it  abruptly 

turned  towards  a  gap  in  the  road-fence,  some 

yards  before  her,  she  could  ascertain  that  this 

individual  was  closely  muffled  in  the  common 

female  Irish  mantle,  holding,  as  Irishwomen 

often  do,  the  ample  hood  gathered  round  the 

face.     "That's  not  a  woman's  step,"  thought 

Peggy,  as  the  figure  issued  through  the  gap: 

"  and   now   this  will   be   the  sorest  trial  of 

all." 

And,  with  her  suspicions,  well  might  she 
say  so.  The  gigantic  resolution  of  her  heart, 
so  long  kept  up,  had  just  begun  to  yield  to  an 
admitted  sense  of  relief :  she  had  just  permitted 
her  mind  to  turn  and  sicken  on  the  contem- 
plation of  the  horrors  she  had  witnessed  and 
escaped;  an  opportunity  at  last  seemed  created 
for  an  indulgence  of  the  revulsion  and  weakness 
of  her  woman's  nature— and  now  again  to  call 
back  her  unexcelled  philosophy;  again  to  rally 
herself;  again  to  arrest  and  fix  the  melting 
resolution;  to  stead y  the  pulse-throb,  tutor  the 
vei'y  breath,  prepare  the  very  tones  of  her  voice; 
this,  indeed,  was  her  sorest  trial.  But  it  was 
her  greatest  too;  for  Peggy,  assisted  a  little  by 
the  shadows  of  night,  came  out  of  it  still  trium- 
phant. 

"God  save  you  !"  began  the  person  in  the 
cloak,  in  a  female  voice.  Peggy  gave  the  usual 
response  with  a  calm  tone.  "Are  you  for 
thravellin'  far,  a-roon?"  continued  the  new- 
comer. She  said  she  was  going  to  Dublin. 
"  I'm  goin'  there  myself,  an'  we  may's  well  be 
on  the  road  together."  "With  all  my  heart, 
then,"  answered  Peggy,  and  they  walked  on 
side  by  side.  "You're  not  of  these  parts, 
ma-colleen,  by  your  tongue,"  resumed  her 
companion.  Peggy  assented.  "An"  how  far 
did  you  walk  to-day,  a-chorra?"  "Not  far; 
not  a  step  to-day;  only  from  a  house  in  a 
bosheen  behind  us  a  few  minutes  ago. "  "What 
house,  a  good  girl?  do  you  mane  the  slate- 
house  that  stands  all  alone  in  the  middle  o' 
the  lane?"  Peggy  believed  that  was  the  very 
one.  "Lord  save  us!  what  bad  loock  sent 
you  there?"  "None,  that  I  know  of;  why?" 
"It  has  a  bad  name,  as  I  hear,  among  the 
neighbours,  and  'ud  be  the  last  place  myself 
'ud  face  to  for  the  night's  rest."  "Well, 
a-roon,  it's  only  a  Christian  turn  to  spake  of 
people  as  we  find  'em;  I  have  nothing  at  all  to 
say  against  the  house;  an'  maybe  it  won't  be 
long  till  I  see  it  again."  "  That's  bould  as 


192 


THE  SPATE. 


well  as  hearty  of  a  young  girl  like  you.  Did 
you  come  across  the  woman  o'  the  house?" 
"Yes,  and  met  good  treatment  from  her;  the 
good  tey,  and  good  dinner,  everything  of  the 
best."  "  But  what  kind  of  a  bed  did  you  get 
from  her,  a-hager?"  continued  the  catechist, 
speaking  very  low,  sidling  to  Peggy,  and  grasp- 
ing her  arm.  This  threw  her  off  her  guard. 
She  shrieked,  and  broke  from  her  companion, 
•who,  as  she  ran,  fast  pursued  her;  and  the 
person's  real  voice  at  last  sounded  in  her  ear. 
"Stop,  Peggy  Xowlan,  or  rue  it!  I  know 
what  you  think  of  the  bed  you  got  now!" 

The  road  suddenly  turned  in  an  angle;  Peggy 
shot  round  the  turn:  as  her  pursuer  gained  on 
her  she  heard  the  noise  of  feet  approaching  in 
a  quick  tramp,  and  a  guard  of  armed  soldiers, 
headed  by  two  men  in  civil  dress,  and  followed 
by  a  post-chaise,  met  her  eyes  at  a  short  dis- 
tance; she  cried  out  again  and  darted  among 
the  soldier.-?;  one  of  them  caught  and  held  her 
from  falling,  and  she  had  only  time  to  say — 
"Lay  hands  on  the  murderer!"  when  nature 
at  last  failed,  and  Peggy's  senses  left  her. 


THE  BANKS  OF  CLYDE. 

[Andrew  Park,  born  at  Renfrew,  7th  March,  1807 ; 
died  in  Glasgow,  27th  December,  1863.  He  published 
twelve  volumes  of  poems,  the  most  popular  of  which  was 
Silent  Lrive.  He  obtained  considerable  celebrity  as  a 
song-writer,  and  several  of  his  songs  continue  to  be  held 
in  high  estimation.  A  complete  edition  of  his  poetical 
works  in  one  large  volume  was  issued  in  1854  by  L>. 
Bogue,  London.] 

How  sweet  to  rove  at  summer's  eve 

By  Clyde's  meandering  stream, 
When  Sol  in  joy  is  seen  to  leave 

The  earth  with  crimson  beam; 
"When  island-clouds  that  wander'd  far 

Above  his  sea-couch  lie, 
And  here  and  there  some  gem-like  star 

Ke-opes  its  sparkling  eye. 

I  see  the  insects  gather  home, 

That  lov'd  the  evening  ray ; 
And  minstrel  birds  that  wanton  roam, 

Now  sing  their  vesper  lay: 
All  hurry  to  their  leafy  beds 

Among  the  rustling  trees, 
Till  morn  with  new-born  beauty  sheds 

Her  splendour  o'er  the  seas. 

Majestic  seem  the  barks  that  glide, 

As  night  creeps  o'er  the  sky, 
Along  the  sweet  and  tranquil  Clyde, 

And  charm  the  gazer's  eye, 


While  spreading  trees  with  plumage  ga 
Smile  vernal  o'er  the  scene, 

And  all  is  balmy  as  the  May — 
All  lovely  and  serene. 


THE   SPATE. 

A   TALE   OF   THE   CLYDE. 

[Thomas  Atkinson,  the  writer  of  the  following  tale, 
was  a  bookseller  in  Glasgow,  and  the  author  of  a  great 
variety  of  fugitive  pieces  in  prose  and  verse.  He  died 
of  pulmonary  disease  while  on  his  passage  to  Barhadoes 
for  the  benefit  of  hia  health,  on  10th  October,  1833,  in 
the  thirty-second  year  of  his  age.  "The  Spate"  ap- 
peared in  a  Glasgow  periodical  named  The  Ant,  pub- 
lished 1826-27,  of  which  the  author  was  editor.] 

It  was  on  the  —  of ,  17 — ,  that  the 

fearful  rise  in  the  waters  of  the  river  Clyde 
carried  away  the  stone  bridge  which  crossed 
it  at  the  foot  of  the  Saltmarket  Street  of  Glas- 
gow. It  is  a  day  memorable  in  the  annals 
of  that  city,  but  still  more  so  in  my  private 
history,  and  the  records  of  my  recollection, 
and — my  love;  for,  old,  and  dull,  and  cold  a* 
I  now  am,  I  liave,  loved.  There  is,  far  up  oa 
the  wall  of  a  building  at  a  great  distance  from 
the  usual  channel  of  the  stream,  an  inden- 
tation cut,  to  show  the  height  to  which  its 
waters  rose,  and  an  inscription  to  tell  the 
tale.  The  tablets  of  my  heart  have  a  more 
deeply  engraven  line — a  more  enduring  im- 
press and  record  of  that  day  of  desolation. 
The  waves  passed  not  the  limits*  of  the  one, 
and  they  left  everything  beneath  as  it  was 
before.  From  me  all  that  preceded  that  tide- 
mark  of  fate  is  reft  away,  or  is  left  shattered 
and  broken;  and  still  it  would  appear  as  if 
the  gloomy  waters  rose  above"  and  passed  be- 
yond even  that  boundary — for,  welling  out 
from  the  fountains  of  a  melancholy  memory, 
the  flood  yet  seems  to  sweep  along  the  heart 
it  left  a  desert,  but  which  must  dree  its  lone- 
liness till  the  spring-tide  of  fate  shall  bear  me 
away  in  its  ebb  to  peace  and — Isabella. 

She  was  the  first — the  only  woman  I  ever 
loved.  Dark-haired,  bright-eyed,  and  nine- 
teen, it  was  little  wonder  she  caught  my  affec- 
tion. Yet  it  was  her  heart  that  secured  the 
love  her  charms  excited — her  mind  that  fixed 
into  esteem  what  had  else  been  but  fleeting 
admiration.  But  I  cannot  go  on  to  describe 
her.  Suffice  it,  that  in  all  her  girlish  beauty 
she  seems  still  before  me:  could  I  paint  that 
vision  it  would  not  add  to  my  pleasure,  nor 
yet  increase  the  interest  of  my  story.  Her 
father  was  a  highly  respectable  tradesman, 


THE   SPATE. 


193 


who  reside:! — fatally   for  me — in   the   lower 
part  of  the  city.     Modern  improvements  have 
swept  away  the  last  relics  of  a  building  where 
Cromwell    resided    for   a    time,    and    Prince  i 
Charles  is  said  to  have  lodged  fora  night.     Its  j 
historical  associations  and  venerable  exterior 
long  made  it  an  object  of  interest  to  the  antiqua- 
rian and  the  stranger :  its  having  been  the  dwell- 
ing of  Isabella  Oswald  made  me  weep  its  fall. 

We  never  had  a  cross  in  our  love  till — but 
let  me  not  anticipate.  My  mistress  was  too 
artless  and  candid  to  seek  to  conceal  that  my 
passion  was  reciprocated,  and  her  widowed 
father  too  indulgent  to  his  cnlychild  to  throw 
any  obstacle  in  the  way  of  her  happiness.  The 
clay  was  fixed  which  was  to  see  her  mine,  and 
the  wedding-garments  already  waited  for  the 
wearers.  A  trivial  circumstance  had  deferred 
my  happiness  and  our  union  for  a  whole — 
month,  as  we  then  thought,  for  the  correspond- 
ing day  of  the  succeeding  one  was  determined 
upon  as  the  one  fittest  for  the  festivity,  which 

could  not  be  celebrated  on  the  16th  of , 

but  we  could  then  see  nothing  to  prevent  its 

being  so  on  the  16th  of .    Isabella's  father 

was  married  on  this  day  of  the  calendar,  and 
ho  had  been  so  peculiarly  happy  as  a  husband, 
that  he  seemed  almost  to  think  that  no  man 
could  be  equally  so  unless  he  was  wedded  on 
that  identical  day.  Alas  !  this  month  was  to 
be — eternity  I  had  almost  said — yet,  yet  surely 
I  shall  meet  with  my  Isabella,  and  be  again 
united  with  her  in  the  bonds  of  enduring  affec- 
tion !  It  was  fated  to  be  lengthened,  however, 
into  aH  the  weary  years  which  have  since  crept 
along,  and  have  yet  to  elapse  before  it  is  the 
will  of  the  Giver  of  my  life  to  resume  it  to 
himself  and  ask  me  for  my  compt. 

The  winter  had  been  very  open,  and  the 
great  quantities  of  rain  which  fell  around 
Glasgow  and  in  the  upper  ward  of  Lanark- 
shire, had  repeatedly  swollen  the  river  Clyde 
to  an  uncommon  height.  But  the  house  in 
which  resided  Mr.  Oswald  was  BO  far  from  its 
banks  that  the  successive  spates  never  reached, 
nor  even  nearly  approached  it.  At  length, 
however,  the  frost  set  in  with  sudden  and 
keen  severity.  A  temporary  thaw  followed  in 
a  day  or  two,  but  was  speedily  succeeded  by 
a  considerable  fall  of  snow,  which  lay  on  the 
hills  above  the  county  town,  and  round  Tinto, 
to  a  great  depth.  The  frost  again  became  in- 
tense, but  was  of  brief  duration,  for,  returning 
from  a  wedding-party  at  an  early  hour  on  the 
morning  of  Saturday,  itseemed  tome  increasing 
in  bitterness ;  but,  on  rising  from  bed  after  a 
short  rest,  I  found  torrents  of  rain  pouring 
•J-nvn,  the  wind  blowing  a  gale  from  the  west- 

VOL.    I. 


ward,  and  the  air  unnaturally  warm.  In  the 
city  the  thaw  was  instantaneous,  and  almost 
magical  in  its  operation,  sweeping  the  streets 
of  their  accumulated  frost  in  a  few  hours. 
The  gale  increased  as  the  day  wore  on,  and 
the  rain  descended  without  intermission  till 
evening,  when  the  fury  of  both  seemed  to 
abate.  About  nine  o'clock  or  the  Saturday 
evening  there  was  almost  what  the  sailors  call 
a  "lull,"  and  every  me  imagined  the  storm 
had  altogether  ceased. 

Although  dwelling  in  a  quarter  of  the  city 
remote  from  Isabella's  home,  many  of  my 
evenings,  as  might  have  been  expected,  were 
passed  there  in  the  delightful  anticipation  of 
the  approaching  time  when  all  our  hours  of 
leisure  should  be  spent  together.  The  business 
of  the  week  concluded,  I  hastened  to  scat  my- 
self beside  my  untiring  betrothed,  who  would 
hardly  cease  to  ply  her  needle,  or  lay  aside  her 
work,  even  when  my  arm,  hanging  over  her 
chair  and  perhaps  even  intruding  upon  hci 
waist,  interfered  with  the  swift  but  ever  grace- 
ful motion  of  her  hand  in  sewing.  My  request 
itself,  that  she  would  be  idle  for  a  time,  wan 
but  half  conceded.  But  then — it  was  upon 
preparations  for  her  new  station — household 
comforts  for  her  future  husband — becoming 
garments  for  a  young  wife — that  she  was 
occupied  !  And  she  could  speak  and  look — oh  ! 
speak  by  snatches,  and  look  in  glances,  as  she 
raised  her  eyes  from  her  task — when  so  em- 
ployed— more  beautifully,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
thanany  other  one  could,  withnothingelsetodo, 
and  no  other  object  to  attain  but  admiration. 

Thus  seated,  we  noticed  not  that  the  wind 
had  again  risen  and  the  rain  begun  to  pelt 
against  the  casement,  until  I  gave  my  first 
threatening  motion  of  departure.  This,  of 
course,  preceded  the  actual  effecting  of  it  about 
an  hour,  but  during  that  time  it  was  evident 
that  the  storm  had  resumed  all  its  violence. 
We  were  told,  too,  that  the  river  was  rising, 
and  that  those  who  lived  near  it  were  deserting 
their  houses ;  but  the  thought  of  danger  to  the 
place  where  we  sat  never  occurred.  Eleven 
o'clock  arrived,  and  with  a  reluctance  I  was 
loath  to  exhibit  and  could  not  then  account 
for — but  which  was  the  sensation  the  very 
brutes  feel  at  impending  calamity — I  bade  my 
Isabella  good-night  and  proceeded  to  my  dis- 
tant home.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  sought  by 
occupation  to  weary  myself  into  sleepiness  when 
I  had  arrived  there.  The  tempest  increased, 
and  with  it  my  restlessness  and  agitation.  To 
bed,  however,  I  went ;  but  certainly  not  to 
rest — for  as  the  watches  of  midnight  wore  on, 
the  gale  became  a  hurricane,  anu  came  in  such 
13 


134 


THE  SPATE. 


terrific  gusts  of  violence,  as  at  each  of  them  to 
threaten  the  destruction  of  everything  that 
opposed  its  fury.  In  the  midst  of  that,  and 
even  louder  than  its  voice,  was  heard,  ever  and 
anon,  the  crash  of  some  chimney  that  had 
given  way,  or  the  rattle  of  slates  and  shingles 
torn  up  from  the  roofs  of  tenements  and  pre- 
cipitated into  the  street.  The  scream  of  human 
voices  and  the  yelling  of  dogs  followed  these, 
and  added  to  their  horror;  and,  Sabbath  morn- 
ing as  it  was,  the  rattle  of  the  wheels  of  carts, 
hastily  summoned  to  bear  away  household 
furniture  from  dwellings  which  the  affrighted 
tenants  deemed  insecure  on  account  of  their 
exposure  to  the  tempest,  to  places  of  greater 
strength  or  better  sheltered,  had  a  very  peculiar 
effect  in  heightening  the  impression  of  sudden 
danger  and  well-grounded  fear.  It  was  as  if 
another  element — that  of  tire— had  been  ravag- 
ing the  neighbourhood.  And  it  occurred  to 
almost  every  one,  that  if  that  were  to  break  out, 
with  such  a  wind  to  fan  it,  the  consequences 
would  be  terrible  beyond  even  apprehension. 
Twice  or  thrice  the  terror  led  to  the  anticipa- 
tion, and  the  alarm  was  actually,  but  erroneously 
given.  —  It  was  impossible  to  remain  in  bed. 

The  frightful  thought  flashing  across  my 
brain,  that  the  gale  setting  so  from  the  west- 
ward, and  the  snow  melting  with  such  unpre- 
cedented rapidity — the  one  swelling  and  the 
other  stemming  the  river — might  bring  its 
stormy  waters  even  to  the  dwelling  of  my 
Isabella,  I  hastily  grasped  at  my  clothes,  that 
I  might  personally  ascertain  whether  there 
was  a  chance  of  her  suffering  inconvenience. 
Danger  I  could  not  dream  of  from  the  stream, 
and  the  lowness  of  the  site  of  her  residence, 
while  it  might  expose  it  to  the  flood,  protected 
it  from  the  gale.  I  dressed  and  made  for  the 
door.  It  was  impossible,  however,  to  pass 
through  it.  Beset  by  an  agitated  mother, 
screaming  sisters,  and  younger  brothers,  I  was 
alternately  taunted  with  caring  for  my  own 
safety  above  theirs,  or  for  that  of  another  indi- 
vidual rather  than  my  "born  relations,"  and 
assured  and  reasoned  with  that  there  could  be 
no  possible  danger  elsewhere,  as  the  Clyde  had 
never  been  known  to  rise  to  the  height  of  Mr. 
Oswald's  dwelling-house.  This  I  was  aware  of, 
and  hope  and  entreaty  prevailed.  I  returned  to 
my  pillow;  but,  it  is  needless  to  say,  I  could  not 
sleep.  After  having,  however,  procured  the 
promise,  that,  with  the  first  light  of  morning, 
a  messenger  would  be  sent  to  ascertain  if  our 
friends  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city  were  in 
safety,  and  hearing  the  wind  gradually  abate, 
and  the  rain  cease,  I  fell  into  a  slumber  which 
continued — agitated,  indeed,  with  dreams  of 


alternate  vague  delight  and  dim  and  dreary 
horror,  but  unbroken — until  far  in  the  morn- 
ing, whose  rays  had  been  religiously  excluded 
from  my  pillow.  Once  awake,  it  was  but  the 
work  of  a  moment  to  ascertain  that  no  mes- 
senger had  been  sent,  and  to  prepare  personally 
to  ascertain  the  welfare  of  my  future  wife.  By 
this  time  the  day  was  shining  as  unclouded  and 
bright  as  if  it  had  been  a  forenoon  in  spring, 
and  the  wind  blew  with  no  more  violence  than 
to  dry  up  almost  every  vestige  of  last  night's 
deluge,  in  the  higher  streets  of  Glasgow.  The 
bells  rung  for  sermon,  and  well-dressed  crowds 
passed  calmly  along  as  I  apparelled  myself — 
with  something  like  deliberation  !  It  seemed 
impossible  that  anything  could  have  happened 
to  Isabella's  home,  since  not  one  vestige  of  all 
the  crashing  havoc  we  had  heard  appeared  ia 
the  broad  and  sunny  light  of  day:  the  few 
chimney-tops  and  slates  which  had  been  over- 
thrown with  a  noise  so  disproportionate  to  the 
real  danger  and  destruction,  having  been 
decorously  removed  from  the  Sabbath  path  of 
the  church-going  crowds.  I  began  to  feel  in 
daylight  almost  ashamed  of  my  midnight  ap- 
prehensions— and,  however  rapid  my  gait  might 
be  as  I  proceeded  down  the  High  Street,  I  did  no 
more  than  walk.  I  even  paused  for  a  moment 
to  answer  an  interrogatory  from  a  passing  friend 
— so  assured  was  I  willing  to  think  myself  that 
my  fears  had  been  visionary.  The  city  cross 
was  at  length  passed — but  I  ran  as  I  approached 
that  bend  in  the  Saltmarket  which,  when 
turned,  permitted  me  to  see  the  building  that 
held  all  I  loved  on  earth.  A  crowd  hid  its 
lower  part  from  me,  but  a  glance  told  that  all 
was  secure  on  its  roof.  The  throng  extended, 
as  it  seemed,  so  far  above  her  residence,  as  to 
block  up  the  street  at  where  it  opens  to  St. 
Andrew's  Square.  I  was  but  a  moment  in 
penetrating  its  outer  rank — and  finding  my- 
self, a  few  steps  farther  on,  on  the  verge  of  a 
vast  body  of  sullen  and  muddy  water,  which 
stretched  thus  far  up,  and  onwards  beyond 
where  had  stood  the  opposite  end  of  the  dis- 
tant bridije,  that  now,  in  vain,  1  looked  for! 
It  had  been  swept  away  in  the  rapid  and 
mighty  current  which  threw  its  superabundant 
streams  thus  far  into  the  city  streets.  All  was 
desolation  below  where  I  stood.  I  was  horror- 
struck  at  the  sight  of  houses  before  me  whose 
first-floor  windows,  from  the  declivity  of  the 
descent  towards  the  river,  were  almost  under 
water,  and  the  thought  that  Isabella  and  her 
father  might  have  perished  in  seeking  to  escape 
in  terror  from  a  flood,  that,  though  it  could 
not  reach  their  own  apartments,  might  yet  en- 
danger the  safety  of  the  whole  tenement,  and, 


THE  SPATE. 


195 


at  the  best,  imprison  them,  and  separate  her 
from  me  until  it  had  subsided.  The  inhabi- 
tants who  had  escaped  from  the  shops  and 
lower  floors  of  the  houses  between  where  I  was 
and  the  river,  were  all  crowded  in  the  upper 
ilats,  whose  windows,  crammed  with  a  terrified 
population,  contrasted  strangely  with  the  utter 
solitude  nearer  the  street,  where  every  opening 
was  closed,  and  not  a  living  thing  visible.  The 
carcasses  of  drowned  domestic  animals,  filth, 
and  fragments  of  furniture  floated  around;  but 
beneath  the  second  story  of  the  houses,  vestige 
of  animated  being  there  was  none.  Boats 
could  not  be  procured  from  the  harbour,  and 
carts  did  not  then  ply  through  the  stream ; 
indeed  the  water  was  much  too  deep  for  them, 
even  if  they  had  had  a  dry  spot  to  resort  to 
after  passing  through.  The  wailing  of  women 
and  children,  driven  from  their  houses,  and 
the  chattering  inquiries  of  idlers  asking  parti- 
culars which  those  who  knew  them  were  too 
deeply  affected  to  communicate,  prevented  my 
eager  questions  as  to  Mr.  Oswald  and  family's 
safety,  meeting  with  an  answer.  At  length  I 
found  one  who  said — blessed  words  ! — that  he 
could  assure  me  that  they  were  still  in  their 
own  house — and  in  a  security  their  elevated 
position  insured  them.  But  then  he  also  told 
me  that  it  was  but  three  or  four  hours  since  it 
became  impossible  to  reach  them  by  the  in- 
crease of  the  flood;  so  that  my  delay — my  con- 
fidence— my  hope — had  exiled  me  during  her 
da  iger  from  my  sweetheart's  side !  Had  I 
hastened  at  an  earlier  hour  to  assure  myself  of 
her  safety,  I  would  have  shared  her  imprison- 
ment, and  been  at  her  side  in  case  of  peril ! 
This  was  indeed  a  bitter  thought. 

After  as  careful  a  survey  as  my  perturbation 
and  self-reprobation  would  permit  of  the  posi- 
tion and  depth  of  the  water,  and  being  assured 
that  a  boat  Avas  hourly  expected  from  some 
quarter,  I  judged  that  if  I  could  procure  a 
horse  I  might  ride  so  far  down  as  to  obtain  a 
glimpse  of  the  windows  of  Mr.  Oswald,  and 
perhaps  see  Isabella  at  one  of  them.  A  proffer 
of  about  as  much  as  the  value  of  the  brute, 
procured  me  the  loan  of  a  miserable  creature 
from  a  carter,  who  unharnessed  the  animal,  and 
on  its  naked  back  I  rode  into  the  water  till  it 
reached  my  knees  and  the  girths  of  the  hack, 
which  then  would  go  no  farther.  I  however 
attained  my  purpose.  The  jeers  of  the  crowd, 
and  the  awkward  spluttering  of  the  animal, 
unaccustomed  equally  to  water  and  being  rode 
on,  attracted  to  the  windows  all  who  could 
spare  a  thought  from  their  own  fears.  Isabella 
opened  the  casement  of  her  room  and  looked 
out.  A  glance  showed  me  that  she  was  safe, 


and  her  that  I  was  an  object  of  not  uncalled- 
for  merriment  to  the  ga/.ers.  I  perceived  this 
myself — but  not  till  the  wave  of  her  'kerchief 
told  me  all  was  well — and  the  arch  nod  of  her 
head  showed  she  was  sufficiently  at  her  ease  t« 
smile.  I  returned  to  the  shore,  as  I  may  call  it, 
happy — yet,  shall  I  confess  it,  almost  angry  too. 
The  waters  continued  to  rise — and,  as  the 
wind  had  abated,  it  was  obvious  that  the  melt- 
ing of  the  snow  was  the  cause.  Of  course  it 
was  impossible  to  guess  at  what  hour  there  was 
a  chance  of  them  subsiding.  I  hesitated  for  a 
time  whether  to  exhibit  any  further  violence 
of  anxiety  to  reach  Mr.  Oswald's,  or  wait  for 
the  expected  boat  which  was  to  be  employed  in 
carrying  provisions  to  the  besieged  who  might 
need  a  supply.  The  delay  of  its  arrival  at 
length  became  intolerable  as  I  paced  to  and 
fro  upon  the  margin,  on  which  the  rising 
waters  still  seemed  to  encroach.  The  day  wore 
on — the  churches  emptied  their  crowds  to 
throng  to  the  scene  and  return  again  to  ser- 
mon with  a  tranquillity  that  I  envied.  At 
length,  chafed  to  contempt  for  even  the  titter 
of  a  hundred  gazers,  or  the  deprecatory  smile 
of  my  mistress  herself,  I  retraced  my  steps  to 
the  Trongate,  and  pursued  its  westward  course 
towards  the  Broomielaw,  anticipating  the  pos- 
sibility of  procuring  there  a  boat  and  a  couple 
of  rowers  from  one  of  the  vessels  in  that  har- 
bour. In  my  anxious  haste,  I  had  forgotten 
that  the  same  river  which  leaped  over  its 
bounds  at  a  higher  part  of  its  course,  was  not 
likely  to  confine  itself  within  them  so  much  far- 
ther down  the  level  of  its  channel.  As  1  might 
have  anticipated,  I  found  the  scene  at  the 
Jamaica  Street  bridge — which  the  elevation  of 
its  roadway  enabled  me  to  reach— one  of  wider 
desolation,  but  far  more  awful  grandeur,  than 
the  circumscribed  one  I  had  left.  Placed  on 
its  centre  arch,  and  looking  upward,  it  seemed 
as  if  some  mighty  transatlantic  stream,  and 
not  an  island  river,  rolled  along  in  terrible 
depth  and  irresistible  might,  between  banks 
whose  edges  were  steep  and  abrupt  indeed,  for, 
defined  only  by  the  fronts  of  the  far-separated 
lines  of  houses  that  stood  many  hundred  feet 
distant  from  its  usual  channel,  but  close 
beside  which  it  now  rushed  furiously  by  in 
boiling  eddies  of  clay-coloured  waves,  fearful 
in  their  silent,  unfoamy  turbulence,  which 
no  wind  stirred  up — as  is  the  angry  malice 
of  a  man,  for  whose  fury  we  perceive  no  pre- 
sent cause.  Beneath  the  bridge  the  water 
roared  with  thundering  turmoil,  and  all  of  it 
that  could  not  escape  through  the  roomy  arches, 
curled  up  into  yeast  by  the  resistance  of  the 
abutments,  raged  noisily  and  fiercely  through 


196 


THE  SPATE. 


the  ornamental  circular  openings  placed  above 
them.  Looking  down  the  stream,  if  there 
was  less  turbulence,  because  greaterrooin  for  ex- 
pansion, the  prospect  was  not  less  terrible  and 
uncommon.  Between  the  houses  far  remote 
from  the  breast-work  of  the  harbour  and  those 
on  the  opposite  shore,  still  more  widely  separated 
from  the  broad  and  level  bank  of  the  river,  on 
that  side,  by  a  pasture  park  and  road,  there 
was  but  one  vast  channel  for  the  sea-like  stream 
that  filled  it  brimmingly.  The  water  was  even 
seen  to  extend  far  up  the  streets,  which  on 
either  side  opened  laterally  from  what  seemed 
now  but  the  stone  edging  of  this  gigantic  canal, 
or  vast  basin ;  and  the  long  line  of  vessels, 
secured  to  their  usual  rings  and  fastenings  on 
the  quay,  and  either  riding  close  to  its  front, 
or  over  its  top,  as  their  cables  gave  them  space, 
looked  but  a  large  fleet  at  anchor  in  the  middle 
of  the  stream.  At  the  moment  I  turned  my 
lace  westward,  a  little  sloop  had  broke  from  its 
fastenings  with  apparently  but  an  old  man  and 
a  boy  on  board,  and  wa.s  reeling  down  the 
e.Jdyhig  current  in  drunken-like  whirls,  while 
the  ear  shrunk  from  the  screams  of  these  help- 
less extremes  of  existence,  as  did  the  eye  from 
their  peril — a  peril  from  which  they  could  only 
escape  by  the  miracle  of  their  bark  being 
speedily  driven  on  the  level  shore,  or  running 
foul  of  some  larger  vessel  that  could  stand  the 
shock.  Of  yawl  or  pinnace  there  was  not  one 
in  view.  Everything  without  a  mast  that  was 
not  swamped  had  been  hoisted  up  into  snug 
security  on  the  deck  of  the  larger  vessels  they 
attended  ;  and  to  my  hurried,  and,  I  fear,  in- 
coherent inquiries  whether  I  could  hire  a  boat 
and  some  rowers  to  proceed  to  the  Saltmarket 
and  carry  me  to  a  building  insulated  by  the 
water,  I  only  procured  in  answer  the  stare  of 
vacant  astonishment,  or  vulgar  jesting  and 
fresh-water  sailors'  slang.  It  soon  became  ob- 
vious even  to  myself  that  it  was  altogether 
hopeless  to  expect  effecting  a  communication 
with  Mr.  Oswald's  family  by  such  means,  and 
there  was  obviously  nothing  for  me  but  patience 
— a  sufficient  punishment.  I  strained  my 
eyes  to  watch  if  there  was  any  perceptible  de- 
clension in  the  height  of  the  water,  and  almost 
blessed  a  person  who  assured  me  that  he 
thought  it  had  begun  to  ebb,  although  even 
my  eagerness  could  not  perceive  its  recession. 

I  returned  again  to  my  station  in  the  street 
where  Isabella  lived.  The  waters  had  not 
subsided;  but  the  wind  had  again  risen,  and  at 
six  o'clock — it  was  now  four — the  tide  would 
be  full,  and,  consequent!}',  the  flood  greater. 
In  my  absence,  I  learned  with  regret,  but 
Without  self-reproach,  that  the  expected  boat 


had  arrived  from  the  neighbouring  canal  basin; 
but,  after  carrying  assistance  to  many  sufferers, 
had  swamped  upon  a  bulk,  hidden  under  water, 
and  it  was  not  thought  worth  while  to  cart 
another  from  such  a  distance.  For  some  hours, 
then,  even  under  the  most  favourable  circum- 
stances, it  was  evident  that  no  exertion  on  my 
part  could  enable  me  to  overcome  the  obstacles 
which  separated  me  from  my  beloved;  and, 
exhausted  with  anxiety,  fatigue,  cold,  and 
hunger,  I  was  prevailed  upon  by  some  friends 
who  had  now  joined  me,  to  retire  to  a  neigh- 
bouring tavern  for  refreshment.  Night  was 
now  closing  in,  but  it  was  in  the  unclouded 
beauty  of  a  rising  moon,  and  the  clear  atmo- 
sphere of  a  returning  frost,  so  that  I  was  cheered 
witli  the  hope,  on  my  part,  and  certainty  on 
that  of  others,  that,  ere  nine  o'clock,  the  pas- 
sage to  the  foot  of  the  Saltmarket  would  be 
practicable.  Some  of  my  companions  even 
asserted  that  the  street  would  be  almost  as 
soon  drained  as  the  bowl  in  whose  brimming 
contents  they  pledged  my  mistress,  and  the 
wish,  at  the  same  time,  that  I  might  never 
suffer  so  much  from  drought  as  I  had  done 
from  moisture.  Though  anxious,  I  became 
almost  cheerful,  but  was  again  at  my  post  by 
the  time  of  high -water.  And  there,  to  and 
fro  did  I  pace,  marking  and  measuring  the 
recession  of  the  slimy  flood,  whose  retreat  had 
now  obviously,  though  slowly,  begun.  At 
eight  o'clock  I  conceived  it  practicable  to 
reach  the  entrance  to  Mr.  Oswald's  dwelling, 
by  driving  a  cart  through  the  water.  When 
the  owner  of  it,  however,  found  that  it  sunk 
beneath  the  trams,  he  refused  to  proceed. 
Another  hour  of  feverish  watchfulness  was 
mine,  and  another  attempt,  although  nearer 
success — because  coming  closer  to  the  mark — 
yet  did  not  reach  it.  At  length,  just  as  the 
first  chimes  of  the  ten  o'clock  bells  were  in- 
ducing the  few  uninterested  stragglers  who 
lingered  upon  the  spot  to  turn  homewards,  a 
loud  cry  was  heard  to  proceed  from  the  lower 
part  of  the  street,  near  to  which  we  could  now 
advance.  Lights  were  seen  at  many  windows ; 
casements  were  hurriedly  opened;  and  in  the 
tenement  for  whose  security  alone  I  cared,  a 
singular  bustle  and  confusion  was  observed. 
Suddenly  there  ran  along  the  line  of  gazers 
that  defined  the  dry  street  and  the  water,  the 
broken  whisper,  whence  communicated  I  have 
never  learned,  that  the  foundations  of  the 
houses  farthest  down  had  been  sapped  and 
were  giving  way.  The  flags  of  the  pavement, 
it  was  said,  were  starting  up  upon  their  ends, 
and  the  screams  were  occasioned  by  the  inmates 
observing  fearful  rents  in  the  walls  of  the 


EVENING. 


197 


buildings,  from  the  lower  flats  of  which  the 
water  was  now  hastening  with  rapid  and  de- 
structive suction.  I  ftaw  nothing  of  this,  for  I 
waited  not  to  look.  It  was  enough  that  I  had 
heard.  Throwing  myself  into  a  cart,  I  seized 
the  haiter  of  the  horse,  and,  hardly  waiting  for 
the  driver,  forced  it  onwards  through  the  still 
deep,  though  receding  flood.  The  water  was 
over  the  flooring  of  the  car  before  it  reached 
the  gateway  leading  to  Isabella's  dwelling;  and 
was  up  to  my  breast  as  at  one  bound  I  leaped 
over  the  wheels,  regardless  of  the  snorting 
capers  of  the  affrighted  horse.  In  one  minute 
I  was  under  the  archway,  and  in  utter  dark- 
ness; but  I  half-stepped  half-floated  onwards 
towards  where  I  guessed  was  the  entrance  to 
the  stair.  In  a  moment  I  was  over  the  eyes — 
plunged  into  a  hole  occasioned  by  the  breaking 
up  of  the  pavement — but  in  another,  dripping 
at  every  lock,  I  had  struggled,  I  hardly  knew 
how,  but  instinctively,  to  the  turnpike,  and 
was  above  the  water-mark  on  its  steps.  A 
second  showed  me  a  frightful  rent  in  the  wall 
of  the  stair;  and  almost  with  but  one  bound,  I 
was  by  the  side  of  Isabella.  Less  alarmed  than 
I,  she  was,  however,  lik^e  all  the  inmates  of  the 
land,  greatly  terrified,  and  anxiously  waiting 
the  assistance  for  which  her  father  was  by 
this  time  making  signals  at  the  window.  A 
word  served  to  explain  that  the  means  of 
succour  and  escape  were  near  at  hand  in  the 
cart  I  had  ordered  to  wait  my  return.  The 
old  man  was  grateful :  my  beloved  silently  but 
fondly  submitted  to  be  lifted  up  in  my  arms; 
and,  followed  by  the  servants  with  papers  and 
other  valuables,  I  proceeded  down  to  the  still 
half  choked-up  archway.  As  we  proceeded  a 
loud  crack  from  the  timbers  of  the  building, 
and  a  visible  widening  of  the  rent  before  no- 
ticed, together  with  the  fall  of  masses  of  plaster 
from  the  roof,  increased  their  terror,  and  quick- 
ened our  speed.  Bearing  aloft  my  precious 
charge,  and  exclaiming  that  I  should  lead  the 
way,  I  plunged  into  the  water,  which  now 
reached  no  higher  than  my  middle.  Taking 
care  to  avoid  that  side  where  I  had  stumbled 
as  I  entered,  I  cautiously  advanced,  pressing 
my  dear  burden  to  my  breast  with  one  arm, 
while  the  other  served  to  pilot  me  along  the 
walls  with  —  I  still  remember — unhurrying 
care.  The  father  and  domestics  hesitated  to 
follow,  and  the  lights  they  held  in  their  hands 
threw  a  dazzling  glare  upon  the  dismal  waters 
as  I  turned  round  to  inquire  the  cause  of  their 
delay,  and  to  encourage  their  advance.  In  one 
instant  of  time  I  was  plunged  into  a  dark  and 
narrow  gulf,  which  had  yawned  open  for  my 
destruction  as  I  advanced.  I  felt  myself  sink 


in  a  moment,  and  graze  against  the  sides  of 
the  chasm  as  I  descended;  and  she  was  with 
me — clinging  to  me— locked  in  my  arms!  One 
dreadful  scream  from  her — a  gurgling  groan 
from  myself — and  the  feeling  of  intense  pain 
in  my  temples  for  a  moment — is  all  that  1  re- 
member of  this  dreadful  hour.  Dim  recollec- 
tions I  have,  indeed,  of  flaming  torches — coils 
of  ropes  and  iron-spiked  drags — bleeding  tem- 
ples, and  draughts  forced  down  my  throat — 
oaths — exclamations — wail  ings  and  tears;  but 
these  I  dare  not  think  upon — for  I  v-as  mad, 
they  tell  me,  for  a  time,  when,  weeks  after,  I 
inquired  where  I  stood — and  for  my  Isabella. 
I  then  learned  that  it  was  presumed  she — more 
severely  bruised  than  even  I  had  been  in  the 
descent  to  the  cellar  beneath  the  gateway, 
whose  arch  had  fallen  in — had  sunk  with  me, 
while  her  body  had  not  instantaneously  risen 
to  the  surface  of  the  horrid  gap,  with  mine, 
and  had  perished  — half-stricken  and  half- 
drowned — beneath  this  low-browed  vault,  and 
amid  these  slimy  waters!  Her  father  died 
broken-hearted.  It  has  been  my  award  to  live 
so.  Lunatics  are  mad  when  the  moon  is  at 
the  full ;  I  am  only  so  when  again  the  hateful 
waves  of  the  spate  are  in  the  streets  of  the 
city,  and,  it  may  be,  sapping  more  foundations 
— and  drowning  more  earthly  hopes  of  happi- 
ness and  Isabellas.  It  is  but  then  only  that  I 
can  speak  of  her  name,  or  tell  her  fearful  and 
untimely  fate. 


EVENING. 

Tlie  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun, 
Breathless  with  adoration ! 

WORDSWORTH. 

Tis  Evening. — On  Abrnzzo's  hill 
The  summer  sun  is  lingering  still,— 
As  though  unwilling  to  bereave 

The  landscape  of  its  softest  beam, — 
So  fair — one  can  but  look  and  grieve 

To  think  that,  like  a  lovely  dream, 
A  few  brief  fleeting  moments  more 
Must  see  its  reign  of  beauty  o'er! 

'Tis  Evening ; — and  a  general  hush 

Prevails,  save  when  the  mountain  spriu 
Bursts  from  its  rock,  with  fitful  gush, 

And  makes  melodious  murmuring; — 
Or  when  from  Corno's  height  of  fear, 

The  echoes  of  its  convent  bell 
Come  wafted  on  the  far-off  ear 

With  soft  and  diapason  swell, 
But  sounds  so  wildly  sweet  as  they, 
Ah !  who  would  ever  wish  away? 


198 


TO  J***  H***,   FOUR   YEARS  OLD. 


Yet  there  are  seasons  when  the  soul, 

Rapt  in  some  dear  delicious  dream, 
Heedless  what  skies  may  o'er  it  roll, 

What  rays  of  beauty  round  it  beam, 
Sliuts  up  its  inmost  cell ; — lest  aught, 

However  wondrous,  wild,  or  fair, 
Shine  in — and  iuterruut  the  thought, 

The  one  deep  thought  that  centres  there ! 

Though  with  the  passionate  sense,  so  shrined 

And  canonized,  the  hues  of  grief 
Perchance  be  darkly,  closely  twined, 

The  louely  bosom  spurns  relief; 
And  could  the  breathing  scene  impart 

A  charm  to  make  its  sadness  less, 
Twould  hate  the  balm  that  healed  its  smart, 

And  curse  the  spell  of  loveliness 
That  pierced  its  cloud  of  gloom,  if  so 
It  stirred  the  stream  of  thought  below. 

ALARIC  A  WATTS. 


TO  J***  H***,   FOUR  YEARS   OLD. 

fien  d'amori, 

fien  di  canti,  epien,  dijiori.— FnuiioNi. 

Ah,  little  ranting  Johnny ! 

For  ever  blithe  and  bonny, 

And  singing  nonny,  nonny, 

With  hat  just  thrown  upon  ye; 

Or  whistling  like  the  thrushes 

With  voice  in  silver  gushes; 

Or  twisting  random  posies 

With  daisies,  weeds,  and  roses; 

And  strutting  in  and  out  so, 

Or  dancing  all  about  so, 

With  cock-up  nose  so  lightsome, 

And  sidelong  eyes  so  brightsome, 

And  cheeks  as  ripe  as  apples, 

And  head  as  rough  as  Dapple's, 

And  arms  as  sunny  shining 

As  if  their  veins  had  wine  in ; 

And  mouth  that  smiles  so  truly, 

Heaven  seems  to  have  made  it  newly, 

It  breaks  into  such  sweetness, 

With  merry-lipped  completeness;  — 

Ah  Jack,  ah  Gianni  mio, 

As  blithe  as  Laughing  Trio, 

—Sir  Richard,  too,  you  rattler, 

So  christened  from  the  Tattler,— 

My  Bacchus  in  his  glory, 

My  little  cor-di-fiori, 

My  tricksome  Puck,  my  Robin, 

Who  in  and  out  come  bobbing, 

As  full  of  feints  and  frolic  as 

That  fibbing  rogue  Autolycus, 

And  play  the  graceless  robber  on 

Your  grave-eyed  brother  Oberon,— 

Ah  !  Dick,  ah  Dolce-riso, 

How  can  you,  can  you  be  so? 


One  cannot  turn  a  minute, 

But  mischief — there  you're  in  it, 

A  getting  at  my  books,  John, 

With  mighty  bustling  looks,  John, 

Or  poking  at  the  roses, 

In  midst  of  which  your  nose  is; 

Or  climbing  on  a  table, 

No  matter  how  unstable, 

And  turning  up  your  quaint  eye 

And  half-shut  teeth  with  "Mayn't  I  ?" 

Or  else  you're  off  at  play,  John, 

Just  as  you'd  be  all  day,  John, 

With  hat  or  not,  as  happens, 

And  there  you  dance,  and  clap  hands. 

Or  on  the  grass  go  rolling, 

Or  plucking  flow'rs  or  bowling, 

And  getting  me  expenses 

With  losing  balls  o'er  fences 

Or,  as  the  constant  trade  is, 

Are  fondled  by  the  ladies, 

With  "What  a  young  rogue  this  is  ! ' 

Reforming  him  with  kisses; 

Till  suddenly  you  cry  out, 

As  if  you  had  an  eye  out, 

So  desperately  tearful, 

The  sound  is  really  fearful; 

When,  lo,  directly  after, 

It  bubbles  into  laughter. 

Ah  rogue ! — and  do  you  know,  John, 
Why  'tis  we  love  you  so,  John? 
And  how  it  is  they  let  ye 
Do  what  you  like,  and  pet  ye, 
Though  all  who  look  upon  ye 
Exclaim  "Ah,  Johnny,  Johnny!" 
It  is  because  you  please  'em 
Still  more,  John,  than  you  teaze  'em 
Because,  too,  when  not  present, 
The  thought  of  you  is  pleasant; 
Because,  though  such  an  elf,  Johu, 
They  think  that  if  yourself,  John, 
Had  something  to  condemn  too, 
You'd  be  as  kind  to  them  too ; 
In  short,  because  you're  very 
Good-tempered,  Jack,  and  merry; 
And  are  as  quick  at  giving, 
As  easy  at  receiving; 
And,  in  the  midst  of  pleasure, 
Are  certain  to  find  leisure 
To  think,  my  boy,  of  ours, 
And  bring  us  lumps  of  flowers. 

But  see,  the  sun  shines  brightly, 
Come,  put  your  hat  on  rightly, 
And  we'll  among  the  bushes, 
And  hear  your  friends  the  thrusehs; 
And  see  what  flow'rs  the  weather 
Has  rendered  fit  to  gather; 
And  when  we  home  must  jog,  you 
•Shall  ride  my  back,  you  rogue  you, 


A  FAMILY  SCENE. 


Your  hat  adorned  with  fine  leaves, 
Horse-chestnut,  oak,  and  vine-leaves ; 
Aud  so,  with  green  o'erhead,  John, 
Shall  whistle  home  to  bed,  John. 

LEIGH  HUMT. 


A  DIRGE. 

"Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust!" 
Here  the  evil  and  the  just, 
Here  the  youthful  and  the  old, 
Here  the  fearful  anil  the  bold, 
Here  the  matron  and  the  maid 
In  one  silent  bed  are  laid; 
Here  the  sword  and  sceptre  rust — 
"Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust!" 

Age  on  age  shall  roll  along 
O'er  this  pale  and  mighty  throng ; 
Those  that  wept  then,  those  that  weep, 
All  shall  with  these  sleepers  sleep. 
Brothers,  sisters  of  the  worm, 
Summer's  sun  or  winter's  storm, 
Song  of  peace  or  battle's  roar, 
Ne'er  shall  break  their  slumbers  more. 
Death  shall  keep  his  sullen  trust — 
"Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust!" 

But  a  day  is  coming  fast, 
Earth,  thy  mightiest  and  thy  last! 
It  shall  come  in  fear  and  wonder, 
Heralded  by  trump  and  thun  ler ; 
It  shall  come  in  strife  and  toil. 
It  shall  come  in  blood  and  spoil, 
It  shall  come  in  empire's  groans, 
Burning  temples,  trampled  thrones; 
Then  Ambition,  rue  thy  lust ! — 
"Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust!" 

Then  shall  come  the  judgment-sign; 
In  the  east  the  KING  shall  shine; 
Flashing  from  heaven's  golden  gate, 
Thousand  thousands  round  his  state; 
Spirits  with  the  crown  and  plume; 
Tremble  then,  thou  sullen  tomb ! 
Heaven  shall  open  On  our  sight, 
Earth  be  tura'd  to  living  light, 
Kingdom  of  the  ransom'd  just — 
"Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust!" 

Then  thy  mount,  Jerusalem, 
Shall  be  gorgeous  as  a  gem ; 
Then  shall  in  the  desert  rise 
Fruits  of  more  than  Paradise; 
Earth  by  angel  feet  be  trod, 
One  great  garden  of  her  God ! 
Till  are  dried  the  martyrs'  tears 
Through  a  thousand  glorious  years! 
Now,  in  hope  of  HIM  we  tuist, 
"Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust!" 

CROLY. 


A  FAMILY  SCENE. 

[Susan  Edmonstone  Ferrier,  born  in  Edinburgh, 
178^;  died  November,  1S54.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
James  Ferrier,  one  of  the  clerks  of  the  Court  of  Session, 
Edinburgh.  In  18 IS  she  published  her  first  novel, 
Mar,-ii.sie,  which  earned  her  a  lasting  reputation.  Scott 
ill  his  epilogue  to  the  Tales  of  My  Landlord,  distinguishes 
his  "sister-shadow,  the  author  of  the  very  lively  work 
entitled  Marriage,"  as  one  of  those  be.st  qualified  to 
illustrate  the  varieties  of  Scottish  character  which  he 
had  left  untoucheL  Miss  Furrier's  second  work,  1'ke 
Inheritance,  appeared  in  1824;  and  in  1831,  Destiny,  ur 
the  Chiefs  Daughter,  a  story  illustrative  of  Highland 
manners  and  scenery.  The  following  amusing  sketch 
is  from  the  second  work.] 

The  great  use  of  delineating  absurdities  is,  that  we 
may  kuow  how  far  human  folly  can  go.  the  account, 
therefore,  ought,  of  absolute  necessity,  to  be  luiuiful. — 
JOHNSON. 

The  first  appearance  of  the  Holm  was  highly 
prepossessing.  It  was  a  large,  handsome-look- 
ing house,  situated  in  a  well-wooded  park,  by 
the  side  of  a  broad  placid  river,  and  an  air  of 
seclusion  and  stillness  reigned  all  round,  which 
impressed  the  mind  with  images  of  peace  and 
repose.  The  interior  of  the  house  was  no  less 
promising — there  was  a  spacious  hall  and  a 
handsome  staircase,  with  all  appliances  to  boot 
— but  as  they  approached  the  drawing-room, 
all  the  luxurious  indolence  of  thought,  inspired 
by  the  tranquillity  of  the  scenery,  was  quickly 
dispelled  by  the  discordant  sounds  which  issued 
from  thence;  and  when  the  door  was  throwa 
open,  the  footman  in  vain  attempted  to  an- 
nounce the  visitors.  In  the  middle  of  the 
room  all  the  chairs  were  collected  to  form  a 
coach  and  horses  for  the  Masters  and  Misses 
Fairbairn. — One  unruly-looking  urchin  sat  in 
front,  cracking  a  long  whip  with  all  his  might 
— another  acted  as  guard  behind,  and  blew  a 
shrill  trumpet  with  all  his  strength — while  a 
third,  in  a  night-cap  and  flannel  lappet,  who 
had  somewhat  the  air  of  having  quarrelled 
with  the  rest  of  the  party,  paraded  up  and 
down,  in  solitary  majesty,  beating  a  drum. 
On  a  sofa  sat  Mrs.  Fairbairn,  a  soft,  fair,  gen- 
teel-looking woman,  with  a  crying  child  of 
about  three  years  old  at  her  side,  tearing  paper 
into  shreds,  seemingly  for  the  delight  of  litter- 
ing the  carpet,  \vhieh  was  already  strewed  with 
headless  dolls,  tailless  horses,  wheelless  carts, 
&c.  As  she  rose  to  receive  her  visitors  it  began 
to  scream. 

"  I'm  not  going  away,  Charlotte,  love — don't 
be  frightened,"  said  the  fond  mother,  with  a 
look  of  ineffable  pleasure. 


200 


A  FAMILY  SCEXE. 


"You  no  get  up — you  shan't  get  up," 
screamed  Charlotte,  seizing  her  mother's  gown 
fiercely  to  detain  her. 

"My  darling,  you'll  surely  let  me  go  to 
speak  to  uncle — good  uncle,  who  brings  you 
pretty  things,  you  know;" — but,  during  this 
colloquy,  uncle  and  the  ladies  had  made  their 
way  to  the  enthralled  mother,  and  the  bustle 
of  a  meeting  and  introduction  was  got  over. 
Chairs  were  obtained  by  the  footman  with  some 
difficulty,  and  placed  as  close  to  the  mistress 
of  the  house  as  possible,  aware  that  otherwise 
it  would  not  be  easy  to  carry  on  even  question 
and  answer  amid  the  tumult  that  reigned. 

"You  find  us  rather  noisy,  I  am  afraid," 
said  Mrs.  Fairbairn  with  a  smile,  and  in  a 
manner  which  evidently  meant  the  reverse; 
"but  this  is  Saturday,  and  the  children  are  all 
in  such  spirits,  and  they  won't  stay  away  from 
me — Henry,  my  dear,  don't  crack  your  whip 
quite  so  loud — there's  a  good  boy — that's  a 
new  whip  his  papa  brought  him  from  London; 
ami  he's  so  proud  of  it ! — William,  my  darling, 
don't  you  think  your  drum  must  be  tired  now? 
— If  I  were  you  I  would  give  it  a  rest. — 
Alexander,  your  tnimpet  makes  rather  too 
much  noise — one  of  these  ladies-  has  got  a 
headache — wait  till  you  go  out — there's  my 
good  boy,  and  then  you'll  blow  it  at  the  cows 
and  the  sheep,  you  know,  and  frighten  them — 
Oh  !  how  you'll  frighten  them  with  it !  " 

"No,  I'll  not  blow  it  at  the  cows; — I'll  blow- 
it  at  the  horses,  because  then  they'll  think  it's 
the  mail-coach." — And  he  was  running  off, 
when  Henry  jumped  down  from  the  coach-box. 

"No,  but  you  shan't  frighten  them  with 
your  trumpet,  for  I  shall  frighten  them  with 
my  whip.  Mamma,  aren't  horses  best  frightened 
with  a  whip?" — and  a  struggle  ensued. 

"Well,  don't  fight,  my  dears,  and  you  shall 
both  frighten  them,"  cried  their  mamma. 

"No,  I'm  determined  he  shan't  frighten 
fiem ;  I  shall  do  it,"  cried  both  together,  as 
they  rushed  out  of  the  room,  and  the  drummer 
was  preparing  to  follow. 

"William,  my  darling,  don't  you  go  after 
these  naughty  boys;  you  know  they're  always 
very  bad  to  you.  You  know  they  wouldn't 
let  you  into  their  coach  with  your  drum." — 
Here  William  began  to  cry. — "Well,  never 
mind,  you  shall  have  a  coach  of  your  own — a 
much  finer  coach  than  theirs;  I  wouldn't  go 
into  their  ugly  dirty  coach;  and  you  shall 

have "  Here  something  of  a  consolatory 

nature  was  whispered,  William  was  comforted, 
and  even  prevailed  upon  to  relinquish  his  drum 
for  his  mamma's  ivory  work-box,  the  contents  of 
which  were  soon  scattered  on  the  floor. 


"These  boys  are  gone  without  their  hats," 
cried  Mrs.  Fairbairn  in  a  tone  of  distress. 
"Eliza,  my  dear,  pull  the  bell  for  Sally  to  get 
the  boys'  hats." — Sally  being  despatched  with 
the  hats,  something  like  a  calm  ensued,  in  the 
absence  of  he  of  the  whip  and  the  trumpet; 
but  as  it  will  be  of  short  duration,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  take  advantage  of  it  in  improving  the 
introduction  into  an  acquaintance  with  the 
Fairbairn  family. 

Mrs.  Fairbairn  was  one  of  those  ladies,  who, 
from  the  time  she  became  a  mother,  ceased  to 
be  anything  else.  All  the  duties,  pleasures, 
charities,  and  decencies  of  life,  were  hencefortk 
concentrated  in  that  one  gr\nd  characteristic: 
every  object  in  life  was  henceforth  viewed 
through  that  single  medium.  Her  own  mother 
was  no  longer  her  mother ;  she  was  the  grand- 
mamma of  her  dear  infants,  her  brothers  and 
sisters  were  mere  uncles  and  aunts,  and  even 
her  husband  ceased  to  be  thought  of  as  her 
husband  from  the  tima  he  became  a  father. 
He  was  no  longer  the  being  who  had  claims  on 
her  time,  her  thoughts,  her  talents,  her  affec- 
tions; he  was  simply  Mr.  Fairbairn,  the  noun 
masculine  of  Mrs.  Fairbairn,  and  the  father  of 
her  children.  Happily  for  Mr.  Fairbairn,  he 
was  not  a  person  of  very  nice  feelings,  or  refined 
taste;  and  although,  at  first,  he  did  feel  a  little 
unpleasant  when  he  saw  how  much  his  children 
were  preferred  to  himself,  yet,  in  time,  he 
became  accustomed  to  it,  then  came  to  look 
upon  Mrs.  Fairbairn  as  the  most  exemplary  of 
mothers,  and  finally  resolved  himself  into  the 
father  of  a  very  fine  family,  of  which  Mrs. 
Fairbairn  was  the  mother.  In  all  this  there 
was  more  of  selfish  egotism  and  animal  instinct, 
than  of  rational  affection  or  Christian  prin- 
ciple; but  both  parents  piqued  themselves 
upon  their  fondness  for  their  offspring,  as  if  it 
were  a  feeling  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  not 
one  they  shared  in  common  with  the  lowest 
and  weakest  of  their  species.  Like  them,  too, 
it  was  upon  the  bodies  of  their  children  that 
they  lavished  their  chief  care  and  tenderness, 
for,  as  to  the  immortal  interests  of  their  souls, 
or  the  cultivation  of  their  minds,  or  the  im- 
provement of  their  tempers,  these  were  but 
little  attended  to,  at  least  in  comparison  of 
their  health  and  personal  appearance. 

Alas  !  if  there  "be  not  a  gem  so  precious  as 
the  human  soul,"  how  often  do  these  gems 
seem  as  pearls  cast  before  swine ;  for  how  seldom 
is  it  that  a  parent's  greatest  care  is  for  the  im- 
mortal happinessof  that  being  whose  precarious, 
and  at  best  transient,  existence  engrosses  their 
every  thought  and  desire !  But  perhaps 
Mrs.  Fairbairn,  like  many  a  foolish  ignorant 


A  FAMILY   SCENE. 


201 


mother,  did  her  best;  and  had  she  been  satis- 
fied with  spoiling  her  children  herself  for  her 
own  private  amusement,  and  not  have  drawn 
in  her  visitors  and  acquaintances  to  share  in 
it,  the  evil  might  have  passed  uncensured. 
But  Mrs.  Fairbairn,  instead  of  shutting  herself 
up  in  her  nursery,  chose  to  bring  her  nursery 
down  to  her  drawing-room,  and  instead  of 
modestly  denying  her  friends  an  entrance  into 
her  purgatory,  she  had  a  foolish  pride  in  show- 
ing herself  in  the  midst  of  her  angels.  In  short, 
as  the  best  things,  when  corrupted,  always  be- 
come the  worst,  so  the  purest  and  tenderest  of 
human  affections,  when  thus  debased  by  selfish- 
ness and  egotism,  turn  to  the  most  tiresome 
and  ridiculous  of  human  weaknesses, — a  truth 
but  too  well  exemplified  by  Mrs.  Fairbairn. 

"  I  have  been  much  to  blame,"  said  she,  ad- 
dressing Miss  Bell,  in  a  soft,  whining,  sick- 
child  sort  of  voice,  "for  not  having  been  at 
Bellevue  long  ago;  but  dear  little  Charlotte 
has  been  so  plagued  with  her  teeth,  I  could 
not  think  of  leaving  her — for  she  is  so  fond  of 
me,  she  will  go  to  nobody  else — she  screams 
when  her  maid  offers  to  take  her — and  she 
won't  even  go  to  her  papa." 

"Is  that  possible?"  said  the  major. 

"I  assure  you  it's  very  true— she's  a  very 
naughty  girl  sometimes,"  bestowing  a  long 
and  rapturous  kiss  on  the  child.  "Who  was 
it  that  beat  poor  papa  for  taking  her  from 
mamma  last  night?  Well,  don't  cry — no,  no,  it 
wasn't  my  Charlotte.  She  knows  every  word 
that's  said  to  her,  and  did  from  the  time  she 
was  only  a  year  old." 

"That  is  wonderful !"  said  Miss  Bell;  "but 
how  is  my  little  favourite  Andrew?" 

"He  is  not  very  stout  yet,  poor  little  fellow, 
and  we  must  be  very  careful  of  him."  Then 
turning  to  Miss  St.  Clair,  "Our  little  Andrew 
has  had  the  measles,  and  you  know  the  dregs 
of  the  measles  are  a  serious  thing — much 
worse  than  the  measles  themselves.  Andrew — 
Andrew  Waddell,  my  love,  come  here  and 
speak  to  the  ladies."  And  thereupon  Andrew 
Waddell,  in  a  night-cap,  riding  on  a  stick, 
drew  near.  Being  the  major's  namesake,  Miss 
Bell,  in  the  ardour  of  her  attachment,  thought 
proper  to  coax  Andrew  Waddell  on  her  knee, 
and  even  to  open  her  watch  for  his  entertain- 
ment. 

"Ah!  I  see  who  spoils  Andrew  Waddell," 
cried  the  delighted  mother. 

The  major  chuckled — Miss  Bell  disclaimed, 
and  for  the  time  Andrew  Waddell  became  the 
hero  of  the  piece;  the  blaina  of  the  measles 
were  carefully  pointed  out,  and  all  his  suffer- 
ings and  sayings  duly  recapitulated.  At  length 


Miss  Charlotte,  indignant  at  finding  herself 
eclipsed,  began  to  scream  and  cry  with  ad  her 
strength. 

"It's  her  teeth,  darling  little  thing,"  said 
her  mother,  caressing  her. 

"  I'm  sure  it's  her  teeth,  sweet  little  dear," 
said  Miss  Bell. 

"It  undoubtedly  must  be  her  teeth,  poor 
little  girl,"  said  the  major. 

"If  you  will  feel  her  gum,"  said  Mrs.  Fair- 
bairn,  putting  her  own  finger  into  the  child's 
mouth,  "you  will  feel  how  hot  it  is." 

This  was  addressed  in  a  sort  of  general  way 
to  the  company,  none  of  whom  seemed  eager 
to  avail  themselves  of  the  privilege,  till  the 
major  stepped  forward,  and  having  with  his 
fore-finger  made  the  circuit  of  Miss  Charlotte's 
mouth,  ga\e  it  as  his  decided  opinion,  that 
there  was  a  tjoth  actually  cutting  the  skin. 
Miss  Bell  followed  the  same  course,  and  con- 
firmed the  interesting  fact — adding,  tiiat  it 
appeared  to  her  to  be  "an  uncommon  large 
tooth." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Fairbairn  entered, 
bearing  in  his  arms  another  of  the  family,  a 
fat,  sour,  new-waked-looking  creature,  sucking 
its  finger.  Scarcely  was  the  introduction  over — 
"  There's  a  pair  of  legs !"  exclaimed  he,  holding 
out  a  pair  of  thick  purple  stumps  with  red 
worsted  shoes  at  the  end  of  them.  "I  don't 
suppose  Miss  St.  Clair  ever  saw  legs  like  these 
in  France ;  these  are  porridge-and-milk  legs, 
are  they  not,  Bobby?" 

But  Bobby  continued  to  chew  the  cud  of  his 
own  thumb  in  solemn  silence. 

"Will  you  speak  to  me,  Bobby?"  said  Miss 
Bell,  bent  upon  being  amiable  and  agreeable — 
but  still  Bobby  was  mute. 

"We  think  this  little  fellow  rather  long  of 
speaking,"  said  Mr.  Fairbairn;  "we  allege 
that  his  legs  have  run  away  with  his  tongue." 

"  How  old  is  he?"  asked  the  major. 

"He  is  only  nineteen  months  and  ten  days," 
answered  his  mother,  "so  he  has  not  lost  much 
time ;  but  I  would  rather  see  a  child  fat  and 
thriving,  than  have  it  very  forward. " 

"No  comparison !"  was  here  uttered  in  a 
breath  by  the  major  and  Miss  Bell. 

"There's  a  great  difference  in  children  in 
their  time  of  speaking,"  said  the  mamma. 
"Alexander'didn't  speak  till  he  was  two  and 
a  quarter:  and  Henry,  again,  had  a  great  many 
little  words  before  he  was  seventeen  monthw ; 
and  Eliza  and  Charlotte  both  said  mamma  as 
plain  as  I  do  at  a  year—  but  girls  always  speak 
sooner  than  boys — as  for  William  Pitt  and 
Andrew  Waddell.  the  twins,  they  both  suffered 
so  much  from  their  teething,  that  they  were 


202 


BABY  MAY. 


longer  of  speaking  than  they  would  otherwise 
have  been — indeed,  I  never  saw  an  infant 
suffer  so  much  as  Andrew  Waddell  did — he 
had  greatly  the  heels  of  William  Pitt  at  one 
time,  till  the  measles  pulled  him  down." 

A  movement  was  here  made  by  the  visitors 
to  depart. 

"U!  you  mustn't  go  without  seeing  the 
baby,"  cried  Mrs.  Fairbairn — "Mr.  Fairbairn, 
will  you  pull  the  bell  twice  for  baby?" 

The  bell  was  twice  rung,  but  no  baby 
answered  the  summons. 

"She  must  be  asleep,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbairn; 
"but  I  will  take  you  up  to  the  nursery,  and 
you  will  see  her  in  her  cradle."  And  Mrs. 
Fairbairn  led  the  way  to  the  nursery,  and 
opened  the  shutter,  and  uncovered  the  cradle, 
and  displayed  the  baby. 

"Just  five  months — uncommon  fine  child — 
the  image  of  Mr.  Fairbairn — fat  little  thing — 
neat  little  hands — sweet  little  mouth — pretty 
little  nose — nice  little  toes,"  &c.  &c.  &c.,  were 
as  usual  whispered  over  it. 

Miss  St.  Clair  nattered  herself  the  exhibition 
was  now  over,  and  was  again  taking  leave, 
when,  to  her  dismay,  the  squires  of  the  whip 
and  the  trumpet  rushed  in,  proclaiming  that 
it  was  pouring  of  rain!  To  leave  the  house 
was  impossible,  and,  as  it  was  getting  late, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  staying  dinner. 

The  children  of  this  happy  family  always 
dined  at  table,  and  their  food  and  manner  of 
eating  were  the  only  subjects  of  conversation. 
Alexander  did  not  like  mashed  potatoes — and 
Andrew  Waddell  could  not  eat  broth — and 
Eliza  could  live  upon  fish — and  William  Pitt 
took  too  much  small-beer — and  Henry  ate  as 
much  meat  as  his  papa — and  all  these  peculi- 
arities had  descended  to  them  from  some  one 
or  other  of  their  ancestors.  The  dinner  was 
simple  on  account  of  the  children,  and  there 
was  no  dessert,  as  Bobby  did  not  agree  with 
fruit.  But  to  make  amends,  Eliza's  sampler 
was  shown,  and  Henry  and  Alexander's  copy- 
books were  handed  round  the  table,  and  Andrew 
Waddell  stood  up  and  repeated — "My  name  is 
Norval,"  from  beginning  to  end,  and  William 
Pitt  was  prevailed  upon  to  sing  the  whole  of 
"God  save  the  King,"  in  a  little  squeaking 
mealy  voice,  and  was  bravoed  and  applauded 
as  though  he  had  been  Braham  himself. 

To  paint  a  scene  in  itself  so  tiresome  is 
doubtless  but  a  poor  amusement  to  my  reader, 
who  must  often  have  endured  similar  persecu- 
tion. For,  who  has  not  suffered  from  the  ob- 
trusive fondness  of  parents  for  their  offspring? 
— and  who  has  not  felt  what  it  was  to  be  called 
upon,  in  the  course  of  a  morning  visit,  to  enter 


into  all  the  joys  and  the  sorrows  of  the  nursery, 
and  to  take  a  lively  interest  in  all  the  feats 
and  peculiarities  of  the  family?  Shakspeare's 
anathema  against  those  who  hated  music  is 
scarcely  too  strong  to  be  applied  to  those  who 
dislike  children.  There  is  much  enjoyment 
sometimes  in  making  acquaintance  with  the 
little  beings — much  delight  in  hearing  their 
artless  and  unsophisticated  prattle,  and  some- 
thing not  unpleasing  even  in  witnessing  their 
little  freaks  and  wayward  humours ; — but  when 
a  tiresome  mother,  instead  of  allowing  the 
company  to  notice  her  child,  torments  every 
one  to  death  in  forcing  or  coaxing  her  child  to 
notice  the  company,  the  charm  is  gone,  and 
we  experience  only  disgust  or  ennui. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fairbairn  had  split  on  this 
fatal  rock  on  which  so  many  parents  make 
shipwreck  of  their  senses — and  so  satisfied 
were  they  with  themselves  and  their  children, 
so  impressed  with  the  idea  of  the  delights  of 
their  family  scenes,  that  vain  would  have  been 
any  attempt  to  open  the  eyes  of  their  under- 
standing. Perhaps  the  only  remedy  would 
have  been  found  in  that  blessed  spirit  which 
"  vaunteth  not  itself,  and  seeketh  not  its  own." 


BABY  MAY. 

[William  Cox  Bennett,  D.C  L.,  bora  at  Greenwich, 

1S20.  He  has  taken  an  iictive  part  in  the  political  and 
social  movements  of  his  native  town,  whilst  he  has  won 
fame  !is  a  poet,  and  especially  as  the  poet  of  infant  life. 
Miss  Mitford,  in  her  Recollection*  of  a  Literary  Life,  says, 
''Of  all  writers,  the  one  who  has  best  understood,  best 
painted,  best  felt  infant  nature,  is  Mr.  Bennett.  We 
see  at  once  that  it  is  not  only  a  charming  and  richly- 
gifted  jioet  who  is  describing  childish  beauty,  but  a 
young  father  writing  from  his  heart.  Baby  May  is 
amongst  the  most  popular  of  Mr.  Bennett's  lyrics,  and 
amongst  the  most  original,  as  that  which  is  perfectly 
true  to  nature  can  scarcely  fail  to  be."  His  chief  works 
are,  Baby  May.  The  Worn  Widding-Ring,  and  other 
Home  Poems;  Queen  Eleanor's  Vengeance;  Ballads  and 
No.rrative  Poems;  Songs  by  a  Song- Writer;  Poems  of 
Thought  and  Fancy;  and  The  Ballad  and  Song  Hiftory 
of  Enftland.  A  complete  edition  of  Mr.  Bennett'* 
poetical  works  is  published  by  Routledge  &  Son*.] 

Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches, 
Lips  whose  dewy  scarlet  teaches 
Poppies'  paleness — ro\md  large  eyes 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise, 
Minutes  filled  with  shadeless  gladness, 
Minutes  just  as  brimmed  with  sadness, 
Huppy  smiles  and  wailing  cries, 
Crows  and  laugl.s  and  tearful  eyes, 


THE  BRIGAND  OF  TKU  LOIRE. 


203 


Lights  and  shadows  swifter  born 
Thau  on  wind-swept  autumn  corn, 
Ever  some  new  tiny  notion 
Making  every  limb  all  motion — 
Catchings  up  of  legs  and  arms, 
Throwings  back  and  small  alarms, 
Clutching  fingers— straightening  jerks, 
Twining  feet  whose  each  toe  works, 
Kickings  up  and  straining  risings, 
Mother's  ever  new  surprisings, 
Hands  all  wants  and  looks  all  wonder 
At  all  things  the  heavens  under, 
Tiny  scorns  of  smiled  reprovings 
That  have  more  of  love  than  lovings, 
Mischiefs  done  with  such  a  winning 
Archness,  that  we  prize  such  sinning, 
Breakings  dire  of  plates  and  glasses, 
Graspings  small  at  all  that  passes, 
I'ullmgs  off  of  all  that's  able 
To  be  caught  from  tray  or  table; 
Silences — small  meditations, 
Deep  as  thoughts  of  cares  for  nations, 
Breaking  into  wisest  speeches 
In  a  tongue  that  nothing  teaches, 
All  the  thoughts  of  whose  possessing 
Must  be  wooed  to  light  by  guessing  ; 
Slumbers — such  sweet  angel-seemings, 
That  we'd  ever  have  such  dreamings, 
Till  from  sleep  we  see  thee  breaking, 
And  we'd  always  have  thee  waking ; 
Wealth  for  which  we  know  no  measure, 
Pleasure  high  above  all  pleasure, 
Gladness  brimming  over  gladness, 
Joy  in  care  —delight  in  sadness, 
Loveliness  beyond  completeness, 
Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness, 
Beauty  all  that  beauty  may  be — 
That's  May  Bennett,  that's  my  baby. 


BABY'S   SHOES. 

O  those  little,  those  little  blue  shoes ! 

Those  shoes  that  no  little  feet  use ! 
O  the  price  were  high 
That  those  shoes  would  buy, 

Those  little  blue  unused  shoes ! 

For  they  hold  the  small  shape  of  feet 
That  no  more  their  mother's  eyes  meet, 

That  by  God's  good-will, 

Years  since  grew  still, 
And  ceased  from  their  totter  so  sweet ! 

And  O,  since  that  baby  slept, 

So  hush'd !  how  the  mother  has  kept, 

"With  a  tearful  pleasure, 

Th.it  little  dear  treasure, 
And  o'er  them  thought  and  wept! 


For  they  mind  her  for  evermore 
Of  a  patter  along  the  floor, 

And  blue  eyes  she  sees 

Look  up  from  her  knees, 
With  the  look  that  in  life  they  wore. 

As  they  lie  before  her  there, 
There  babbles  from  chair  to  chair 

A  littie  sweet  face, 

That's  a  gleam  in  the  place, 
With  its  little  gold  curls  of  hair. 

Then  O  wonder  not  that  her  heart 
From  all  else  would  rather  part 

Than  those  tiny  blue  shoes 

That  no  little  feet  use, 
And  whose  sight  makes  such  fond  tears  start. 

W.    C.    iiENMiTX. 


THE  BRIGAND  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

It  matters  not  to  my  story  to  enumerate  the 
countries  I  visited,  or  the  route  by  which  I 
eventually  entered  France.  At  the  expiration 
of  two  months  after  crossing  the  frontier,  I 
found  myself  traversing  a  gloomy  forest  road 
in  the  department  of  the  Mayenne  and  Loire; 
— my  path  chosen  at  a  venture; — my  resting- 
place  for  the  coming  night  a  matter  of  vague 
speculation.  But  neither  the  loneliness  and 
intricacy  of  the  way,  nor  my  uncertainty  as  to 
the  place  where  I  might  sleep,  gave  me  un- 
easiness. True  it  was  that  the  brigand  cohorts 
of  Napoleon — a  -crest-fallen  and  desperate  rem- 
nant, escaped  from  the  recently  fought  field  of 
Waterloo — had  but  lately  been  disbanded:  but  I 
knew  that  the  French  soldier  rarely  turns  rob- 
ber in  his  own  country;  and  as  to  a  bed,  I  had 
already  oftener  than  once  had  no  cause  to 
regret  my  having  relied  on  the  hospitality  of 
the  brave  and  simple  VendSens.  Nevertheless, 
as  the  day  began  to  decline,  I  felt  a  strong 
desire  to  exchange  the  rich  repast  of  bramble- 
berries,  which  nature  had  displayed  by  the 
way-side,  and  of  which  I  had  freely  partaken, 
for  the  produce  of  some  well-stored  larder;  and 
it  was,  therefore,  with  a  feeling  of  agreeable 
satisfaction  that  I  at  length  descried  the  waters 
of  the  Loire  sparkling  in  the  brilliant  rays  of 
the  setting  sun.  He  who  has  once  beheld  that 
majestic  stream — the  boast  of  troubadour  song 
— will  not  soon  forget  the  assemblage  of  charma 
which  its  banks  present.  Vine-clad  hills, 
crowned  with  castles  and  towns; — shady  glades, 
echoing  to  the  chime  of  the  vesper-bells; — far- 
spreading  meadows  of  perennial  verdure; — and 
groups  of  prosperous  and  picturesquely-dressed 
peasants;  arrest  the  eye  in  every  direction. 


204 


THE  BRIGAND  OF  THE  LOIRE. 


I  could  descry  the  towers  of  Angers  from  the 
point  where  I  had  first  attained  a  sight  of  the 
river;  but  the  intervening  distance  was  too 
great  to  allow  me  to  reach  that  city  before 
nightfall.  In  these  circumstances  I  resolved 
to  seek  for  a  nearer  resting-place: — an  arrange- 
ment which  hunger  and  fatigue  equally  advo- 
cated. A  bright-looking  village,  situated  on 
the  very  brink  of  the  stream,  was  before  me, 
and  I  made  haste  to  reach  it. 

The  principal  aubenje stood  in  the  "Grande 
Place" — a  small  square,  ornamented  by  several 
rows  of  slim  lime-trees,  and  a  lofty  cross,  cov- 
ered with  a  variety  of  offerings  symbolical  of 
the  Church  of  Rome.     The  hotel  was  a  heavy 
grotesque  pile,  by  far  too  large  for  the  purpose 
to  which  it  was  at  present  devoted.     It  had  j 
been  the  chateau  of  the  seigneur  of  the  village  j 
under  the  old  regime,  and  a  prison  during  the  j 
horrid  alternation  of  the  revolution.     Its  here-  ! 
ditary  possessor,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  had, 
in  common  with  many  of  his  retainers,  long  ! 
been  held  in  durance  within  its  walls,  and  had 
at  length  quitted  them  only  to  perish  in  one 
of  the  notorious/Msi//«</es  at  Angers.     In  short, 
even  in  France,  I  had  rarely  seen  a  more  cut- 
throat looking  structure;  and  I  stepped  across 
its  threshold  with  suspicion. 

The  appearance  of  the  auberglste  assimilated 
more  closely  than  was  agreeable  to  me  with  the 
aspect  of  his  habitation.     He  was  a  tall,  mus-  j 
cular,  bushy-browed  man,  with  a  fierce  gloomy 
cast  of  countenance.      His  dress,   an  empty 
sleeve,  and  the  brusquerie  of  his  manner,  pro-  | 
claimed  the  ex-soldier  and  stanch  advocate  of 
military  despotism.     He  encountered  me  in 
the  outer  court,  and,  instead  of  returning  an  ! 
affable  reply  to  my  salutation,  made  a  motion 
as  if  to  bar  my  entrance,  and  in  a  low  gruff 
tone  demanded  a  sight  of  my  passport.      I  i 
readily  complied  with  this  requisition;  and,  ap- 
parently satisfied  with  its  contents,  he  returned 
it,  and  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen,  I 
turned  away.     I  fancied  that  he  muttered  a  [ 
curse  on  my  country  as  we  parted;  but  I  let  it 
pass  unnoticed. 

I  had  been  but  a  very  short  time  an  inmate 
of  this  mansion  ere  I  was  struck  by  the  un-  j 
wonted  silence  and  gloom  that  pervaded  it.  i 
In  the  kitchen — in  France  almost  invariably  i 
the  seat  of  mirth — all  was  dulness  and  mono- 
tony.   A  couple  of  raw,  uncombed  lads,  natives 
of  the  Bocage,  were  superintending  the  stew- 
pans  that  contained  my  supper;  and  two  young 
girls — the  landlord's  daughters,  as  I  conjec- 
tured— sat  in  listless  contemplation  beside  the 
blazing  faggots  on  the  hearth.     One  of  these 
girls  was  not  merely  comely  but  beautiful; 


but  her  beauty  was  of  that  moonlight  char- 
acter which  too  frequently  betokens  a  stricken 
heart.  When  she  moved  about,  it  was  with 
the  noiseless  step  of  one  treading  in  the  cham- 
ber of  death.  Her  low  musical  voice  echoed 
through  the  apartment  like  the  gentle  breath- 
ings of  a  harp  ;  and  more  than  once  1  caught 
her  black  glistening  eyes  fixed  on  me  with  an 
inexplicable  expression  of  woe  and  alarm. 

In  France  a  traveller  nowise  compromises 
his  respectability  by  partially  mingling  with 
the  family  of  his  host.  In  that  country  the 
accidental  distinctions  of  birth  and  fortune  are 
not  so  deeply  graven  on  the  surface  of  society 
as  in  Britain;  nor  are  the  habits  and  manners 
of  the  various  classes  of  the  community  so  vis- 
ibly dissimilar.  I  had  often,  in  my  wanderings, 
beguiled  a  heavy  hour  by  encouraging  the 
simple  loquacity  of  the  blithe  grisettes  who 
usually  compose  the  household  of  the  humbler 
hostelries;  and  here  the  attraction  was  too  ob- 
vious to  be  resisted.  I  addressed  my  fair  com- 
panions with  that  frank  courtesy  which  I  had 
hitherto  found  the  readiest  mode  of  winning  a 
female's  sufferance  and  smile;  but  for  once  it 
failed  to  elicit  either.  Therese,  the  livelier 
damsel,  did  indeed  make  an  effort  at  conver- 
sation ;  but  her  more  beautiful  sister  only 
answered  by  monosyllables  and  sighs.  Sur- 
prised at  this  taciturnity,  I  ventured  to  hazard 
a  surmise  as  to  the  cause,  by  charging  her  with 
over-anxiety  for  the  fate  of  some  absent  lover; 
but  had  reason  to  repent  of  my  freedom,  when 
I  saw  her  rise  abruptly,  and  withdraw,  with 
her  eyes  surcharged  with  tears.  Therese,  in 
reply  to  the  apology  which  I  felt  it  incumbent 
to  make,  briefly  said,  "  Poor  Jacqueline,  she 
has  many  sorrows ; "  and  with  this  I  was  com- 
pelled to  be  satisfied.  A  notification  that  supper 
was  ready  soon  after  called  me  to  another  apart- 
ment; and  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening  one 
of  the  Yendeen  boys  was  my  only  attendant. 

The  room  set  apart  for  my  accommodation 
during  the  night  was  on  the  upper  floor  of  the 
house;  and,  on  my  way  to  it,  I  had  to  traverse 
a  labyrinthine  succession  of  passages  and  gal- 
leries, which  the  faint  light  of  the  taper,  car- 
ried by  the  garfon  who  acted  as  my  conductor, 
peopled  with  a  thousand  spectral  shadows.  My 
couch  was  not  merely  comfortable  but  splendid: 
— the  tapestry  that  covered  the  walls  exhibited 
the  gorgeous  pageant  of  a  tournament;  and  the 
toilette-table  was  of  spotless  marble;  but  the 
chairs  were  rickety,  and  the  floor  uncarpeted, 
as  French  floors  usually  are,  and  laid  with  tiles. 
This  was  the  sum  of  my  observations;  for, 
fatigued  with  my  journey,  I  was  glad  to  court 
repose. 


THE  BRIGAND  OF  THE  LOIRE. 


205 


Slumber  soon  closed  my  eyelids,  but  it  was 
unref resiling  and  disturbed  by  dreams.  Visions 
full  of  terror  followed  each  other  in  quick  suc- 
cession;— skeleton  shapes  surrounded  me; — 
and  murderers'  knives  glittered  at  my  throat. 
I  fancied  that  some  mortal  peril  had  beset  me, 
and  that,  to  escape  this  undefined  danger,  I 
was  vainly  struggling  to  liberate  myself  from 
the  ghostly  galleries  which  separated  me  from 
the  household  in  the  lower  apartments.  I  en- 
deavoured to  shout  for  help,  but  some  magical 
power  had  chained  my  voice,  and  it  was  not 
till  after  I  had  suffered  the  protracted  torture 
of  the  nightmare  that  I  was  at  length  able 
to  conquer  the  frightful  lethargy  that  had  over- 
powered me. 

I  awoke  with  a  groan,  which  smote  on  my 
half-conscious  ear  like  a  sepulchral  echo.  An 
indistinct  recollection  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  I  had  retired  to  rest  haunted  my 
fancy;  but  instead  of  finding  myself  reclining 
on  a  comfortable  couch,  I  now  lay  stretched 
on  a  cold  dank  pavement,  half-dressed,  and  in 
utter  darkness.  I  extended  my  arms  on  each 
side  of  me,  and  they  encountered  solid  walls — 
I  straightened  myself,  and  my  feet  touched  a 
similar  obstruction.  In  the  first  moments  of 
consciousness  a  terrific  idea  took  possession  of 
me.  I  had  heard  of  persons  having  been  buried 
alive  while  under  the  influence  of  a  temporary 
suspension  of  the  vital  functions;  and  this  horrid 
fate  seemed  now  to  be  mine.  I  experienced, 
or  fancied  that  I  still  experienced,  an  inability 
to  give  utterance  to  my  agony;  and  my  respir- 
ation began  to  grow  quick  and  labouring.  The 
conviction  of  my  premature  inhumation  was 
momentarily  becoming  stronger,  when  a  ray 
of  light  gleamed  through  the  wall  at  my  feet, 
and  a  noise,  like  the  shutting  of  a  door,  relieved 
my  despair.  In  short,  I  had  become  a  sleep- 
walker: but  whither  my  somnambulary  adven- 
tures had  conducted  me,  was  a  riddle  I  had  yet 
to  solve. 

My  first  impulse,  on  being  thus  far  enlight- 
ened, was  to  call  for  assistance;  my  second,  to 
endeavour  to  grope  my  way  back  in  silence  to 
my  apartment.  But  a  low  plaintive  sound, 
like  the  accents  of  one  in  sorrow,  suddenly  fell 
on  my  ear,  and  I  paused  to  listen.  It  evi- 
dently proceeded  from  the  same  quarter  as  the 
friendly  light;  and  I  was  tempted  to  put  my 
eye  to  the  illuminated  crevice  to  reconnoitre. 
By  this  scarcely  justifiable  procedure  I  was 
enabled  to  obtain  a  view  of  a  small  meanly 
furnished  apartment,  occupied  by  two  persons, 
one  of  whom  was  my  fair  acquaintance  Jacque- 
line. Her  companion  was  a  young  man,  who 
lay  reclining  on  a  couch  immediately  opposite 


my  place  of  concealment.  He  wore  the  faded 
uniform  of  the  imperial  guard;  and  though  the 
expression  of  his  countenance  was  martial  and 
dignified,  his  pale  cheek,  hollow  eye,  and  feeble 
voice,  told  a  melancholy  story.  Jacqueline 
was  seated  near  him,  and  held  one  of  his  hands 
clasped  to  her  bosom.  They  were  conversing 
in  an  undertone;  and  it  appeared  that  she  had 
been  urging  him  to  flee  from  some  imminent 
danger;  but  the  sick  soldier  was  evidently  ad- 
verse to  the  proposition,  for,  in  reply,  he  said, 
"  Nay,  my  Jacqueline,  this  may  not  be.  My 
strength  is  gone,  my  hopes  are  destroyed,  my 
path  is  beset  by  traitors,  who  will  eventually 
run  me  down.  All,  all  is  lost,  save  you  and 
honour,  and  on  your  breast  will  I  die.  My 
blessed  wife!  all  that  Victor  Delagarde  now 
asks  of  fortune  is,  that  you  may  be  near  to 
close  his  eyes." 

"  You  must  live,  Victor,"  exclamed  Jacque- 
line, deep  sobs  interrupting  her  articulation. 
"You  must  live,  or  I  too  must  perish.  But 
why  are  you  thus  cruelly  opposed  to  my  plans? 
Why  will  you  not  endeavour  to  reach  some 
other  country,  where  your  precious  life  may  be 
secure?  I  will  follow  you,  Victor,  to  the  world's 
end,  if  you  cannot  find  safety  nearer." 

"  My  kind  Jacqueline,"  said  her  companion, 
"  I  know  too  well  that  no  perils  could  daunt 
your  generous  heart.  But  why  should  I  con- 
ceal from  you  that  my  health  is  irreparably 
injured,  and  that  my  strength  and  my  spirits 
are  alike  unequal  to  further  exertion.  I  am 
aware  that  your  father  trembles  at  the  risk  he 
runs  by  harbouring  a  proscribed  man;  nay, 
that  he  even  apprehends  the  disposal  of  my 
insensate  remains  may  bring  him  into  trouble. 
But  why  should  he  urge  me  to  seek  a  grave 
among  strangers.  Yet  a  few  short  days,  and 
I  shall  have  looked  my  last  on  that  dear  face, 
and  felt  for  the  last  time  the  pressure  of  this 
kind  hand.  As  to  my  body — the  river  runs 
deep. — " 

"You  will  drive  me  to  distraction,  Victor," 
answered  Jacqueline.  "My  father  feels  no 
anxiety  on  his  own  account;  it  is  for  you  alone 
that  he  trembles.  He  knows, — we  all  know, 
— that  here  you  are  in  constant  jeopardy:  we 
cannot  even  procure  you  the  assistance  which 
your  wound  demands  without  imminent  risk 
of  being  betrayed.  Do  not  injure  him  by  un- 
just suspicions." 

"  You  have  misconstrued  my  words,  Jacque- 
line," said  Delagarde.  "I  know  your  father 
to  be  a  brave  and  honourable  soldier.  He  has 
been  in  every  respect  my  father,  since  fate 
bereft  me  of  my  natural  protectors;  but  he 
must  be  more  than  man  not  to  tremble  at  the 


206 


THE  BRIGAND  OF  THE  LOIRE. 


idea  of  the  proscribed  Delagarde  being  found 
secreted  under  his  roof.  Many  brave  men 
have  already  died  the  death  of  traitors;  and  my 
name,  insignificant  though  it  be,  is  also  in  the 
black  list  of  those  for  whom  the  Bourbon  has 
no  forgiveness.  But  I  am  proud  that  it  is  so, 
Jacqueline.  When  blood  so  illustrious  as  that 
of  Ney  and  Labcdoyere  has  flowed  for  our  sol- 
dier king,  why  should  I,  the  meanest  of  his 
captains,  begrudge  mine  own?" 

"  Victor,"  replied  Jacqueline,  "  I  know  you 
to  be  valiant  and  devoted;  and  though  our 
emperor  be  now  a  captive  in  a  strange  land,  I 
love  him  still  for  the  glory  he  won  for  France. 
But,  Victor,  you  have  done  enough  for  his 
cause.  You  have  from  boyhood  followed  him 
in  all  his  wars: — when  the  barbarians  of  the 
North  overran  our  beautiful  France,  you  scorned 
to  swear  fealty  to  another  prince,  though  a 
whole  nation  set  you  the  example.  When 
Xapoleon  returned  to  resume  his  throne,  who 
was  among  the  first  to  join  his  standard? — 
Victor  Delagarde.  When  the  emperor  had 
fought  his  last  field,  whose  was  the  sword  that 
flashed  longest  in  defiance  on  that  day  of  blood? 
— It  was  thine.  When  his  veteran  lieutenants 
crept  like  cravens  to  the  footstool  of  triumph- 
ant imbecility,  who  tt>od  by  him  in  his  hu- 
miliation?— Thyself.  Victor,  you  have  sacri- 
ficed enough  for  your  chief;  you  must  now 
think  of  yourself  and  me." 

"  What  would  you  with  me  then,  Jacque- 
line?" said  the  soldier,  whose  lack-lustre  eye 
had  sadly  kindled  at  the  recapitulation  of  his 
deeds.  "  I  have  told  you,  dearest,  that  my 
vigour  is  impaired;  and  that  the  fatigue  and 
privation  I  must  unavoidably  be  exposed  to, 
if  I  try  to  quit  France,  would  inevitably  ter- 
minate my  life." 

"Of  that  scheme,  then,  we  must  think  no 
more,"  said  Jacqueline.  "Your  life  is  all  I 
seek  to  save;  and  to  me  the  loss  were  equally 
great,  whatever  way  it  might  be  sacrificed. 
But  your  uncle,  the  Count  de  Laval,  has  the 
ear  of  royalty:  he  has  been  true  to  the  Bour- 
bons through  every  alternation  of  their  fortunes; 
and  has  but  to  petition  the  king,  and  your  par- 
don will  be  granted." 

"Jacqueline,"  answered  her  companion, 
"you  would,  indeed,  have  me  stoop  low  in  my 
misfortunes.  Have  you  forgotten,  that  when 
a  captive  in  England,  I  contemned  my  uncle's 
proffered  friendship,  because  it  was  to  be  pur- 
chased by  treachery  to  the  emperor.  Have 
you  forgotten  that  the  count  penned  me  a 
letter,  abjuring  me  as  a  kinsman,  and  denounc- 
ing me  as  a  rebel,  when  he  and  his  king  were 
driven  from  Paris  to  Ghent  by  our  victorious 


arms?  No,  though  the  deadly  fusils  were  al- 
ready at  my  breast,  I  would  not  now  solicit  his 
intercession. " 

Jacqueline  was  about  to  persevere  in  her 
entreaties,  when,  ashamed  of  longer  acting  the 
eaves-dropper,  I  attempted  to  grope  my  way 
back  to  my  chamber.  But  the  passage  was 
damp  and  slippery:  and  an  awkward  stumble 
threw  me  with  some  violence  against  the  door 
that  intervened  between  me  and  the  speakers. 
It  instantly  yielded  to  the  pressure,  and  I  was 
precipitated  headlong  into  their  apartment. 
The  consternation  my  unlooked-for  appearance 
occasioned  to  the  inmates  filled  me  with  dis- 
may. Jacqueline  shrieked  to  the  utmost  pitch 
of  her  voice,  and  flung  herself  on  the  bosom  of 
her  companion  to  shield  him  from  the  threat- 
ened danger;  but  Delagarde,  with  the  self- 
possession  of  a  soldier,  quickly  extricated 
himself  from  her  embrace,  caught  up  a  sword 
that  lay  near  his  couch,  and  prepared  to 
defend  himself.  Before  he  could  use  it  to 
my  injury,  however,  I  felt  a  powerful  hand 
grasping  my  throat,  and  saw  the  surly  avber- 
giste  standing  over  me  with  the  fierce  eye  of 
an  avenger. 

"  Villain!"  exclaimed  the  veteran,  as  he  put 
his  knee  on  my  breast,  "what  base  purpose 
has  brought  you  hither?  Could  our  enemies 
find  no  nobler  bloodhound  to  run  our  hero 
down?  But  your  temerity  shall  cost  you  dear. 
Make  your  peace  with  Heaven.  The  Loire  has 
served  as  a  grave  to  many  a  better  man." 

"  You  threaten  me  with  a  punishment  my 
crime  scarcely  merits,"  said  I,  remaining  pas- 
sive under  his  grasp,  but  shuddering  at  the 
intimidating  roar  of  the  stream.  "  Believe  me, 
I  came  not  here  for  the  base  purpose  you  appre- 
hend. Under  the  influence  of  sleep,  I  wandered 
into  the  adjacent  passage, — a  stumble  threw 
me  against  the  door,  and  burst  it  open.  It  is 
surely  hard  that  my  life  should  be  required  as 
an  atonement." 

Before  I  had  done  speaking,  I  could  discover 
that  Delagarde  was  assured  of  the  truth  of  my 
story,  and  even  the  veteran's  stern  brow  began 
to  relax.  "  Shall  we  trust  him,  Victor?"  said 
he,  looking  dubiously  at  his  son-in-law,  "or 
shall  we  fling  him  into  the  river?  We  are  in 
his  power,  and  the  blood  shed  at  Saumur  is  not 
yet  dry. " 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  we  should  harm  an 
innocent  man!"  said  Delagarde.  "  This  stran- 
ger can  be  no  spy;  he  belongs  to  a  nation, 
which,  though  long  our  enemy  in  the  field, 
abets  not  the  slaves  of  a  tyrant.  We  will 
confide  in  his  honour.  Shall  we  not,  my 
Jacqueline?" 


THE    BRIGAND  OF  THE  LOIRE. 


207 


"Yes,  yes,"  answered  Jacqueline,  "he  will 
not,  he  cannot  be  so  barbarous  as  to  betray  us : 
— who  knows  but  the  Virgin,  to  befriend  us, 
has  sent  him  in  mercy  ?  The  English  are  brave 
and  generous;  and  this  stranger  can  have  no 
interest  in  denouncing  you.  Is  it  not  so,  my 
friend?"  addressing  me.  "Look  at  my  Vic- 
tor,— he  is  wounded, — dying: — he  has  suffered 
this  for  France  and  his  emperor.  Mark  the 
paleness  of  his  cheek,  the  dimness  of  his  eye, 
the  feebleness  of  his  step.  There  was  a  time 
when  he  looked  not  so  helple.-ss.  When  he  re- 
turned from  the  terrible  Avars  of  Russia — though 
the  grand  army  had  perished — he  still  bore  the 
port  of  a  hero.  But  he  went  again  to  the  bat- 
tle: these  hands  bound  the  helmet  on  his  bold 
brow:  you  see  how  he  has  come  back  to  me! 
Englishman! " — she  threw  herself  at  my  feet — 
"  save  my  husband ! " 

The  aubenjiste  had  by  this  time  permitted 
me  to  rise;  and  I  made  an  attempt  to  lift  up 
the  fair  suppliant,  but  she  clung  to  my  knees, 
reiterating  her  invocation.  At  that  moment 
I  could  not  bethink  myself  of  any  mode  by 
which  I  could  effectually  serve  the  unfortunate 
pair,  but  I  readily  pledged  myself  to  do  all  in 
my  power;  and  with  this  promise  she  was  sat- 
isfied. A  short  explanatory  conversation  en- 
sued; and  instead  of  returning  immediately  to 
bed,  I  wrapped  myself  in  a  cloak  belonging  to 
Delagarde,  and  sat  down  to  consult  with  them 
on  the  desperate  circumstances  in  which  he 
was  placed. 

Now  that  the  consternation  occasioned  by 
my  untoward  introduction  had  subsided,  I 
found  them  eager  to  confide  in  me;  and  Jac- 
queline's dark  eyes  sparkled  with  hope  when 
I  intimated  that  I  was  so  far  acquainted  with 
surgery  as  to  be  able  to  undertake  the  cure  of 
her  husband's  wound, — a  gun-shot  in  the 
shoulder,  which  had  been  prematurely  closed, 
and,  in  consequence  of  recent  fatigue,  had 
broken  out  afresh.  On  examining  it,  I  found 
there  was  no  reason  to  despair  of  his  speedy 
restoration  to  health;  and,  inspirited  by  this 
intelligence,  Jacqueline  cheerfully  busied  her- 
self in  preparing  such  dressings  as  the  house 
could  furnish.  While  she  was  thus  employed, 
Delagarde  gave  me  the  following  brief  sketch 
of  his  life,  and  the  circumstances  that  had  now 
so  seriously  compromised  his  safety. 

The  chateau  of  which  we  were  now  inmates 
had  originally  belonged  to  his  family,  as  her- 
editary seigneurs  of  the  village,  and  his  father 
had  inhabited  it  at  the  commencement  of  the 
revolution.  Descended  from  a  race  whose  loy- 
alty was  proverbial,  the  Seigneur  Delagarde 
engaged  heart  and  hand  in  the  arduous  struggle 


long  maintained  against  a  bloody  democracy 
by  the  brave  peasants  of  La  Vendee,  and 
followed  the  youthful  hero  Larochejaquelin 
through  all  the  perils  of  the  campaign  of  the 
Outre  Loire.  On  the  dispersion  of  the  royal- 
ists, he  was  captured  by  the  republicans,  con- 
fined for  a  time  in.  his  own  chdteuu,  and 
ultimately  shot  at  Angers.  His  lady  had  pre- 
viously perished  in  one  of  the  horrid  noyades 
at  Nantes: — one  of  his  brothers  had  fallen  at 
his  side  in  the  unsuccessful  attack  on  Gran- 
ville: — another  had  fled  to  England: — and  his 
orphan  son,  then  a  child  only  six  years  of  age, 
was  left  a  beggar  on  the  streets  of  Angers.  In 
these  days  it  was  a  tempting  of  fate  to  furnish 
food  or  shelter  to  any  person  who  had  a  claim 
to  aristocratical  descent;  and  Victor  Delagarde 
would  have  died  of  famine  had  not  a  humane 
soldier,  one  of  the  same  execrated  "Blues" 
who  had  smitten  the  loyal  Vend^ens  to  exter- 
mination, commiserated  his  case,  and  taken 
him  under  his  protection.  This  man  adopted 
him  as  a  son;  and  when  his  age  qualified  him 
for  military  service,  sent  him  to  the  army, 
where,  under  the  imperial  banner,  he  gradually 
acquired  rank  and  renown.  His  young  heart, 
harrowed  by  the  recollection  of  his  parent's 
fate,  had  turned  with  abhorrence  from  the  more 
notorious  abettors  of  republicanism ;  but  he  soon 
learned  to  regard  with  a  very  different  eye 
the  military  chief  to  whom  he  had  sworn  fealty. 
Napoleon,  in  his  estimation,  was  the  saviour  of 
France — the  avenger  of  the  innocent  blood  shed 
by  the  advocates  of  terror  at  the  revolution. 
He  it  was  who  had  opened  to  him  a  path  of 
fame  and  honour;  and,  dazzled  by  the  Corsi- 
can's  renown,  he  allowed  himself  to  forget  that 
his  own  father  had  perished  for  another  dy- 
nasty, and  followed  the  emperor  with  chivalric 
devotion  through  all  his  wars.  At  length, 
while  fighting  among  the  sierras  of  Spain,  he 
was  captured  by  the  British  army,  and  com- 
pelled to  exchange  the  more  arduous  duties  of 
the  field  for  an  English  prison.  Thus  inter- 
rupted in  his  race  of  glory,  he  bethought  him- 
self of  the  only  relative  who  had  survived  the 
butcherings  of  the  revolution, — the  uncle  who 
had  escaped  to  England,  and  who  had  now  at- 
tained an  elevated  rank  in  the  British  service. 
Delagarde  had  found  an  opportunity  to  make 
this  stanch  royalist  acquainted  with  his  mis- 
fortunes; and  the  count,  never  doubting  that 
his  young  kinsman  had  served  in  the  imperial 
army  from  necessity,  and  that  he,  of  course, 
inherited  the  abhorrence  of  his  ancestors  to 
usurpation,  and  would  readily  embrace  the 
first  opportunity  to  league  against  Napoleon, 
lost  no  time  in  restoring  him  to  freedom. 


203 


THE  BRIGAND  OF  THE  LOIRE. 


Delagarde  hurried  to  Portsmouth,  to  thank 
his  relative  for  this  prompt  recognition  of  his 
consanguineal  claims;  and,  delighted  with  the 
military  bearing  and  gay  unsubdued  spirit  of 
the  young  soldier,  the  count  tendered  him  a 
most  affectionate  welcome,  and  frankly  deve- 
loped certain  plans  which  he  had  already 
farmed  for  his  future  advancement.  These 
were,  that  Delagarde  should  accept  a  commis- 
sion in  the  English  army,  avow  himself  the 
faithful  subject  of  the  house  of  Bourbon,  and 
continue  to  fight  against  his  native  country, 
till  Napoleon  should  be  humbled,  and  the  way 
opened  for  Louis'  restoration.  The  youth 
rejected  this  proposition  with  unequivocal  dis- 
gust. He  had  formed  his  political  opinions  in 
a  school  hostile  to  legitimacy  and  the  whole 
race  of  Capet;  and  even  the  shades  of  his 
parents  were  invoked  in  vain  to  resuscitate  his 
hereditary  loyalty.  He  called  upon  his  kins- 
man to  send  him  back  to  prison,  if  such  were 
his  pleasure;  but  to  spare  his  honour,  which 
he  was  persuaded  would  be  eternally  stained  if 
he  lifted  his  arm  against  his  native  land.  The 
count,  exasperated  at  his  degeneracy,  spurned 
him  from  his  presence,  and  thus  repulsed, 
Delagarde  found  himself  at  liberty  to  rejoin 
the  standard  of  his  choice.  At  this  period  the 
mighty  host  collected  by  Napoleon  for  the  in- 
vasion of  Russia  was  about  to  burst  on  the 
North.  Delagarde  arrived  in  time  to  accom- 
pany it  in  its  proud  advance,  and  shared  in  all 
the  disasters  that  subsequently  overwhelmed 
the  grand  army ;  but,  more  fortunate  than  the 
majority  of  his  comrades,  outlived  the  horrors 
of  that  unprecedented  campaign.  In  the  later 
struggles  in  Germany  and  on  the  French  fron- 
tier, he  repeatedly  distinguished  himself  as  an 
intrepid  soldier,  and  was  rewarded  by  two 
military  orders,  and  the  special  commendation 
of  th e  em peror, — a  circumstance  which  attached 
him  more  devotedly  than  ever  to  the  fortunes 
of  that  extraordinary  man.  When  Paris  capi- 
tulated, he  retired  beyond  the  Loire  with  the 
defeated  army;  and,  on  Napoleon's  abdication, 
Delagarde,  in  common  with  all  his  companions 
in  arms,  reluctantly  acknowledged  the  supre- 
macy of  the  house  of  Bourbon.  In  the  brief 
pause  that  followed,  he  paid  a  visit  to  his  birth- 
place, to  fulfil  his  engagements  with  Jacque- 
line, the  younger  daughter  of  the  same  gener- 
ous-hearted veteran  who  had  protected  his 
helpless  infancy,  and  who,  by  one  of  those 
alternations  not  rare  in  France  in  later  times, 
had  become  the  owner  and  occupant  of  the 
chateau  in  which  his  prot&jt,  had  been  born. 
Scarcely  had  the  young  pair  been  united,  when 
France  was  again  agitated  in  every  quarter  by 


the  sudden  return  of  Napoleon.  Delagarde 
was  with  his  Jacqueline,  who  had  been  only 
a  few  weeks  his  bride,  when  this  intelligence 
reached  him;  and  though  he  had  never  been 
reconciled  to  his  uncle,  who  now  held  a  high 
appointment  at  the  court  of  his  sovereign,  he 
was  beginning  to  admit  that  France  might 
benefit  more  under  the  pacific  supremacy  of 
the  ancient  race  than  under  the  sway  of  her 
warrior  king.  But  no  sooner  did  the  long- 
familiar  cry  of  "Vive  1'Empereur!"  reach  his 
ear,  than  all  his  half-extinguished  anticipations 
of  military  glory  revived.  He  instantly  hur- 
ried off  to  join  the  small  but  resolute  band,  at 
the  head  of  which  his  old  leader  had  undertaken 
the  resumption  of  his  crown,  and  was  promoted, 
for  his  fidelity,  to  an  important  command.  He 
fully  participated  in  the  triumph  of  the  imper- 
ial cause  during  the  famous  "hundred  days." 
He  was  one  of  the  gayest  and  most  knightly- 
looking  of  the  emperor's  cortege  at  the  cele- 
brated Champ  de  Mai;  and  only  laughed  in 
scorn  when  he  received  a  letter  from  his,  for  a 
second  time,  expatriated  uncle,  imprecating 
vengeance  on  his  head,  as  the  abettor  of  regi- 
cides and  the  tool  of  usurpation.  The  battle 
of  Waterloo  followed :  Napoleon's  star  set  in 
blood;  and  Delagarde  was  one  of  the  many 
whom  the  severe  policy  of  the  triumphant  dy- 
nasty found  it  necessary  to  proscribe.  Denoun- 
ced as  a  "brigand,"  and  aware  that  his  life 
must  be  the  penalty  if  he  fell  into  the  hands  of 
his  enemies,  he  fled  to  the  forests  of  La  Vendee, 
and  for  a  time  secreted  himself  in  their  re- 
cesses. But  the  opening  of  his  wound  at  length 
reduced  him  to  despair;  and,  imagining  him- 
self on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  he  determined 
to  visit  his  Jacqueline  at  all  hazards,  and  die 
at  her  side.  His  return  to  her  residence  had 
taken  place  on  the  evening  preceding  my  arriv- 
al ;  and  thus  he  accounted  for  the  anxiety  and 
gloom  that  pervaded  the  household. 

These  incidents  were  narrated  with  a  degree 
of  vivacity  and  energy  which  I  have  vainly 
tried  to  imitate ;  and  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to 
add,  that  I  felt  more  and  more  interested  in 
the  fortunes  of  their  hero.  The  lateness  of 
the  hour,  however,  necessarily  curtailed  our 
interview ;  and,  after  exerting  my  surgical 
skill  to  alleviate  his  wound,  I  returned  to  my 
bed  and  passed  the  remainder  of  the  night  un- 
disturbed. 

As  my  time  was  at  my  own  command,  I 
readily  agreed  to  Jacqueline's  entreaty  to  re- 
main for  some  days  in  attendance  on  my 
patient.  His  wound  rapidly  assumed  a  favour- 
able appearance ;  and,  at  the  end  of  a  week, 
his  strength  and  spirits  were  so  far  resuscitated 


THE  BRIGAND  OF  THE  LOIRE. 


209 


as  to  encourage  the  hope  that  he  would  now 
be  equal  to  any  exertion  or  fatigue  which  he 
might  be  exposed  to  in  making  his  escape. 
At  his  request  I  drew  up  a  plan  by  which  I 
thought  it  probable  he  might  reach  the  island 
of  Jersey,  by  the  way  of  Granville ;  an-d  it  was 
determined  that  this  should  be  put  in  execu- 
tion without  further  delay. 

More  intimate  association  with  the  family 
had  only  rendered  me  the  more  anxious  to 
befriend  them.  The  young  outlaw  was  just 
such  a  gallant  as  ladies  love: — brave,  generous, 
and  devoted,  and  withal  courtly  in  his  bearing, 
and  attractive  in  his  person.  Jacqueline,  re- 
stored to  comparative  happiness,  grew  daily 
more  beautiful ;  and,  as  is  not  uncommon  with 
French  females  even  of  the  humblest  grade, 
her  conversation  had  a  loftiness,  perhaps  it 
ought  to  be  called  extravagance,  of  sentiment, 
altogether  peculiar  to  her  countrywomen,  which, 
conjoined  with  her  natural  grace,  had  a  very 
fascinating  influence  even  on  my  chilled  heart. 
Thus  favourably  impressed,  I  entered  readily 
into  all  their  hopes  and  fears,  and  prayed  as 
earnestly  as  themselves  that  their  anxieties 
might  have  a  happy  termination. 

The  parting  bet  ween  Delagarde  and  his  young 
wife  was  extremely  painful  on  both  sides. 
Neither  of  them  knew  when  they  might  be 
reunited ;  and  though  I  tried  to  point  out  a 
glimmering  of  hope  amid  the  darkness  of  the 
future,  it  scarcely  mitigated  their  anguish. 
Yet,  in  the  depth  of  his  distress,  Delagarde's 
fiery  spirit  could  not  repress  a  burst  of  enthu- 
siastic anticipation. — "Cheer  thee,  my  own 
Jacqueline,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  romantic 
fervour;  "though  thy  Victor  is  now  a  fugitive, 
— though  the  billow  may  soon  separate  him 
from  his  country,  yet  his  arm  shall  be  ready 
when  the  day  of  vengeance  returns.  The 
emperor ! — What  though  his  enemies  have 
chained  him  to  a  rock  hid  in  the  farthest  soli- 
tudes of  the  tropic  sea?  Frenchmen  still  sur- 
vive who  will  peril  all  to  burst  his  fetters,  and 
dash  him  like  a  thunderbolt  on  the  slaves  who 
now  lord  it  over  our  beautiful  France.  Jacque- 
line, when  you  hear  from  the  south  or  from 
the  west,  the  proud  war-cry  of  Napoleon, — the 
cry  which  your  husband's  voice  has  assisted  to 
swell  on  many  a  crimson  field, — then  remember 
Delagarde.  When  you  are  told  that  the  once 
unconquered  eagle  has  again  appeared  among 
the  valleys  of  France,  let  your  womanly  heart 
exult;  for  it  guides  me  back  to  your  arms. 
These  will  be  prouder  times  for  the  beloved  of 
Delagarde." 

Poor  Jacqueline  was  but  little  comforted  by 
this  rhapsodic  loyalty,  which,  to  a  staid  Briton 

VOL.  I. 


like  myself,  appeared  somewhat  related  to 
bombast.  At  midnight  I  assisted  the  auberyiste 
to  ferry  the  fugitive  to  the  northern  bank  of 
the  Loire;  and  on  the  broad  dyke  that  embanks 
the  river  we  bade  him  adieu.  His  wonted 
spirit  had  now  returned,  and  he  departed  with  a 
firm  and  fearless  step.  As  we  rowed  slowly 
back  to  the  spot  where  we  had  embarked,  I 
heard  the  veteran  at  my  side  heave  more  than 
one  deep  sigh,  which  proved  that  his  thoughts 
accompanied  his  adopted  wanderer. 

I  had  now  done  everything  in  my  power  to 
serve  the  outlaw;  and  on  the  following  morn- 
ing I  took  leave  of  his  disconsolate  but  grate- 
ful wife,  and  proceeded  on  my  way  to  Angers. 
The  heat  was  oppressive  and  I  travelled 
leisurely,  being  nothing  loath  to  linger  upon 
the  banks  of  the  noble  river  that  ran  parallel 
to  my  path. 

It  was  considerably  after  mid-day  when  I 
entered  the  town ;  and  I  was  making  the  best 
of  my  way  to  the  hotel  at  which  I  intended  to 
abide,  when,  in  passing  through  a  narrow 
crowded  street,  I  encountered  a  party  of  gens 
d'armes,  who  were  escorting  a  prisoner  to  the 
quarters  of  the  military  commandant.  The 
poor  man  was  bound  on  a  horse,  and  had  re- 
ceived a  deep  sabre-cut  on  his  temple,  which 
bled  profusely  and  frightfully  disfigured  his 
countenance.  Notwithstanding  his  melancholy 
plight,  I  quickly  recognized  my  unfortunate 
friend,  the  brigand  Delagarde.  He  had  been 
arrested  by  a  patrol  of  gens  d'armes  ere  he  had 
lost  sight  of  the  river;  and  his  captors  were  now 
conducting  him  before  the  authorities  appointed 
to  take  cognizance  of  his  crime. 

In  these  circumstances  it  would  only  have 
been  endangering  my  own  liberty  to  have 
openly  recognized  him;  but  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  leave  Angers  while  his  fate  was  un- 
decided, and  therefore  resolved  to  remain  there 
till  after  his  arraignment.  It  was  then  the 
policy  of  the  reigning  family  to  expedite  the 
progress  of  justice;  and  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days  he  was  tried  by  a  military  commission 
and  sentenced  to  be  shot  as  a  traitor,  who  had 
grossly  abused  the  clemency  of  his  legitimate 
king. 

So  long  as  I  remained  in  suspense  as  to  his 
sentence,  I  could  not  summon  resolution  to 
awake  poor  Jacqueline  from  the  dreams  of  hope 
in  which  she  had  chosen  to  indulge  at  the  time 
I  left  her.  But  when  the  remainder  of  his 
days  were  declared  to  be  rigidly  meted  out  by 
the  stern  and  perhaps  just  code  of  political 
vengeance,  I  felt  it  imperative  on  me  to  inti- 
mate to  her  the  perilous  circumstances  in  which 
he  was  placed,  and,  if  possible,  to  procure  for 


210 


THE  BRIGAND  OF  THE  LOIRE. 


both  the  consolation  of  a  final  interview.  I 
was  on  the  eve  of  setting  off  for  her  residence, 
in  order  to  be  myself  the  bearer  of  this  heart- 
rending intelligence,  when  I  encountered  the 
object  of  my  anxiety  wandering  like  a  ghost 
through  the  streets  of  Angers.  She  had  learned 
accidentally  of  her  husband's  apprehension  and 
trial,  and,  like  a  faithful  and  devoted  wife, 
had  instantly  hurried  off  to  be  near  to  comfort 
him  in  his  last  moments.  Strict  orders,  how- 
ever, had  been  issued  to  prevent  all  access  to 
the  prisoner,  whose  execution  had  been  delayed 
until  the  result  of  an  appeal  he  had  made  to 
Paris  should  be  ascertained;  and  his  unhappy 
wife,  ready  to  catch  at  the  slightest  hope,  had 
now  resolved  to  repair  to  the  capital  in  person, 
and  solicit  his  pardon  at  the  king's  feet.  This 
project  she  unhesitatingly  communicated  to 
me;  and,  struck  by  her  magnanimity,  I  felt  a 
spirit  of  errantry  stir  within  me,  and  volun- 
teered to  bear  her  company. 

Jacqueline  had  already  made  her  prepara- 
tions, and  was  urgent  that  no  time  should  be 
lost.  When  I  suggested  the  propriety  of  wait- 
ing until  she  had  consulted  with  her  father, 
she  assured  me  that  she  had  already  secured 
his  consent;  and,  moreover,  that  he  had  sup- 
plied her  with  the  money  requisite  to  defray 
her  expenses.  His  own  reasons  for  not  accom- 
panying her  to  the  capital  were  too  obvious  to 
be  disputed.  He  was  known  as  an  avowed  Bona- 
partist ;  and  instead  of  serving  his  daughter  by 
appearing  as  her  protector,  his  name  was  of  itself 
likely  to  shut  the  ears  of  royalty  to  her  petition. 
Under  these  circumstances  he  had  left  her  to 
rely  solely  on  Heaven  and  her  own  heroic 
spirit. 

We  departed  by  the  earliest  public  convey- 
ance that  started  for  the  capital ;  and  though 
it  was  late  on  the  third  day  before  our  journey 
terminated,  my  fair  companion  bore  the  fatigue 
of  travelling  and  the  agony  of  her  own  mind 
without  complaint.  She  was  no  longer  the 
timid,  heart-stricken  girl  whom  I  had  known 
under  her  father's  roof,  but  the  magnanimous 
•wife,  resolute  even  to  death  to  succour  her 
husband.  As  the  vehicle  in  which  we  travelled 
emerged  from  the  defile  of  Sevre,  and  the 
towers  and  palaces  of  Paris  rose  in  splendour 
before  us,  I  tried  in  vain  to  interest  her  by 
pointing  out  the  more  prominent  features  of 
the  scene,  and  recapitulating  the  historical 
events  with  which  they  were  associated.  "My 
Victor  ! — my  Victor!"  was  her  answer.  "Of 
him  alone  I  can  now  think.  You  tell  me  that 
yonder  green  meadow  is  the  plain  of  Crenelle; 
alas  !  was  it  not  there  that  Ney  and  Labedoyere 
perished? — You  say  that  these  arches  that  span 


the  river  are  the  bridge  of  Jena: — that  yonder 
broad  grove-surrounded  field  is  the  Champ  de 
Mars : — but  I  only  remember  that  at  Jena  my 
Victor  fought  his  first  battle;  and  that  on  the 
Champ  de  Mars  he  was  the  most  admired  of  the 
host  of  warriors  that  swelled  the  last  pageant  of 
his  imperial  master's  pride.  Lead  me !  lead  me 
to  the  Tuileries.  It  is  there  my  fate  must  be 
decided. " 

I  carried  my  charge  to  a  hfitel  in  the  Hue 
Crolx  des  Petite  Champs;  and,  leaving  her  to 
regain  strength  for  the  trials  of  the  coming 
day,  set  off  to  learn  how  she  might  best  obtain 
the  ear  of  royalty.  On  this  point  I  was  not 
long  in  coming  to  a  decision.  A  religious  pro- 
cession from  the  Tuileries  to  the  Cathedral  of 
N6tre  Dame  was  to  take  place  next  morning; 
and  aware  that  no  moment  could  be  more 
opportune  for  working  on  the  feelings  of  the 
king  than  that  on  which  his  mind  was  occupied 
by  devotional  enthusiasm,  I  resolved  that  poor 
Jacqueline  should  avail  herself  of  it  to  make 
the  essay. 

Next  morning  the  deep  roll  of  the  drums  of 
the  royal  guard  announced  the  approach  of  the 
important  hour,  and,  with  trembling  hearts, 
we  repaired  to  the  Place  du  Carrousel.  Jacque- 
line was  dressed  in  deep  mourning;  and  a  long 
black  veil,  flung  lightly  over  her  simple  yet 
becoming  head-dress,  shrouded  her  pallid  but 
lovely  countenance.  I  thought  I  had  never 
seen  one  of  her  country  women  equally  beautiful. 
Her  sable  garments, — extremely  rich  of  their 
kind,  and  conventual  in  their  fashion, — gave 
an  unusual  air  of  grace  and  dignity  to  her  tall, 
graceful  form;  and,  for  the  moment,  I  could 
have  imagined  her  the  sister  of  those  dark-eyed 
Andalusian  damsels  I  used  to  admire  so  much 
when  cooped  up  by  the  French  within  the 
walls  of  Cadiz.  I  had  instructed  her  that  she 
was  to  throw  herself  before  the  king  at  the 
moment  he  emerged  from  under  the  triumphal 
arch  in  the  centre  of  the  Place: — as  to  her 
petition,  I  left  her  own  heart  to  frame  it. 

On  entering  the  Place  du  Carrousel,  that 
vast  arena,  so  famous  in  the  history  of  the 
national  vicissitudes,  we  found  the  troops 
already  marshalling,  and  the  giddy,  pleasure- 
anticipating  populace  beginning  to  congregate. 
Cuirassiers,  lancers,  cJiasseurs  dt,  clicval,  and 
several  battalions  of  the  Garde  Royal,  filed 
in  proud,  military  march,  from  their  distant 
casernes  into  the  palace-yard,  their  bands 
playing  "  Vive  Henri  Quatre," — their  banners 
flaunting  bravely  over  their  splendid  array. 
Jacqueline  had  no  eye  for  this  military  pomp; 
and  fluttering  pennons  and  flashing  steel  had 
long  ceased  to  excite  in  me  any  extravagant 


THE  ROMANY  GIRL. 


211 


admiration  of  warlike  achievement.  I  grad- 
ually made  way  for  my  charge  through  the 
dense  multitudes,  until  we  arrived  within  a 
few  paces  of  the  magnificent  arch ;  and  there, 
immediately  in  rear  of  a  knightly-looking  cap- 
tain of  lancers,  we  took  our  station. 

The  procession  commenced.  All  the  pomp 
of  Catholicism  was  called  into  requisition  to 
increase  its  splendour.  Priests,  statesmen, 
warriors,  princes,  walked  in  penitential  mood 
behind  the  sacred  emblems  of  their  faith;  but 
Jacqueline  looked  only  for  the  king.  At  length 
His  Most  Christian  Majesty  emerged  from 
beneath  the  proud  triumphal  monument  of  his 
predecessor's  glory: — and  the  trembling  girl 
saw  before  her  a  corpulent,  unwieldy  man, 
with  an  expression  of  benignity  on  his  coun- 
tenance, supported  by  attendants,  and  falter- 
ing under  the  weight  of  bodily  infirmities  and 
pious  cogitations.  I  merely  whispered  to 
Jacqueline,  "That  is  the  king."  The  next 
moment  she  had  sprung  past  the  lancer's  horse 
and  prostrated  herself  at  the  feet  of  royalty, 
exclaiming,  in  a  voice  that  might  have  softened 
adamant,  "Mercy,  mercy  from  my  king!" 

The  commotion  this  interruption  occasioned 
for  a  time  among  the  guards  and  priesthood 
threatened  to  annihilate  our  hopes.  Several 
soldiers  made  attempts  to  push  the  suppliant 
away;  but  Louis,  so  soon  as  he  saw  that  he  was 
in  no  danger  of  being  daggered,  ordered  them 
to  desist  and  allow  the  petitioner  to  state  her 
claims  on  his  clemency.  Jacqueline  was  not 
slow  to  profit  by  this  permission.  With  an 
eloquence  which  amazed  even  me,  and  ex- 
cited a  breathless  attention  in  the  listeners, 
she  detailed  the  birth,  the  services,  the  pro- 
scription of  Delagarde.  She  dwelt  with  femi- 
nine pathos  on  his  love  for  bar,  and  on  her 
unutterable  misery  at  the  prospect  of  his  death; 
and  vowed,  that  if  his  life  were  spared,  his 
fidelity  to  his  king  should  henceforth  be  as 
inviolate  as  that  of  his  ancestors.  Louis 
listened  with  some  patience  to  her  appeal. 
He  was  not  insensible  to  the  popularity  which 
he  would  acquire  by  publicly  reprieving  one  of 
the  bitterest  of  his  enemies ;  but  a  constitutional 
timidity  made  him  hesitate  to  grant  the  boon. 
At  that  moment  one  of  his  courtiers,  an  elderly 
nobleman,  knelt  down  beside  Jacqueline  and 
joined  in  her  prayer,  exclaiming,  "Sire,  I  too 
am  a  suppliant.  Save  this  Victor  Delagarde, 
for  the  loyalty  of  his  father  and  the  fidelity  of 
the  servant  who  now  humbles  himself  at  your 
feet." 

It  was  the  Count  de  Laval  who  had  thus 
stepped  forward  to  support  the  heroic  wife  of 
his  nephew.  Louis  could  not  resist  the  sup- 


plications of  a  man  whe  had  been  true  to  him 
through  every  change  of  fortune.  His  royal 
heart  leaned  to  mercy.  Shouts  of  "  Vive  le 
Roi"  rent  the  air;  and  the  brigand  Delagarde 
was  pardoned.1 

Talet  of  a  Ptigrii*. 


FATE. 

[Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  born  at  Boston,  U.  8., 
1803.  He  is  regarded  us  the  Carlyle  of  America,  and 
is  as  widely  known  in  this  country  as  in  his  own  by 
his  various  philosophical  and  ethical  works,  but  he  is 
not  so  generally  known  as  a  poet.  Although  his  verses 
are  chiefly  reflective,  there  is  considerable  lyrical  feel- 
ing iii  some  of  them,  as  in  The  Rwnany  Girl.  His 
poems,  May-Day  and  other  Pieces,  were  published  in 
1846.  Those  of  his  prose  works  which  will  be  found 
most  interesting  by  general  readers  are  Re/.resentutive 
Men;  English  T/aits;  and  the  Conduct  of  Life — a  seriea 
of  valuable  essays.] 

Deep  in  the  man  sits  fast  his  fate 

To  mould  his  fortunes  mean  or  great: 

Unknown  to  Cromwell  as  to  me 

Was  Cromwell's  measure  or  degree ; 

Unknown  to  him,  as  to  his  horse, 

If  he  than  his  groom  be  better  or  worse. 

He  works,  plots,  fights  in  rude  affairs, 

With  squires,  lords,  kings,  his  craft  compares, 

Till  late  he  learned,  through  doubt  and  fear, 

Broad  England  harboured  not  his  peer : 

Obeying  Time,  the  last  to  own 

The  Genius  from  its  cloudy  throne. 

For  the  prevision  is  allied 

Unto  the  thing  so  signified ; 

Or  say,  the  foresight  that  awaits 

Is  the  same  Genius  that  creates. 


THE  ROMANY  GIRL. 

The  sun  goes  down,  and  with  him  takes 
The  coarseness  of  my  poor  attire ; 

The  fair  moon  mounts,  and  aye  the  flair* 
Of  Gypsy  beauty  blazes  higher. 

Pale  Northern  girls !  you  scorn  our  race; 

You  captives  of  your  air-tight  halls, 
Wear  out  in-doors  your  sickly  days, 

But  leave  us  the  horizon  walk, 


1  The  word  "brigand"  has  been  used,  throughout 
the  preceding  narrative,  in  the  sense  in  which  it  was 
applied  by  the  Bourbon  government  to  the  proscribed 
partisans  of  Napoleon,  immediately  subsequent  to  hi* 
dethronement. 


212 


SCENE  FROM  THE  TRYAL. 


And  if  I  take  you,  dames,  to  task, 
And  say  it  frankly  without  guile, 

Then  you  are  Gypsies  in  a  mask, 
And  I  the  lady  all  the  while. 

If,  on  the  heath,  belovf  the  moon, 
I  court  and  play  with  paler  blood, 

Me  false  to  mine  dare  whisper  none, — 
One  sallow  horseman  knows  me  good. 

Go,  keep  your  cheek's  rose  from  the  rain, 
For  teeth  and  hair  with  shopmen  deal ; 

My  swarthy  tint  is  in  the  grain, 
The  rocks  and  forests  know  it  real. 

The  wild  air  bloweth  in  our  lungs, 
The  keen  stars  twinkle  in  our  eyes, 

The  birds  gave  us  our  wily  tongues, 
The  panther  in  our  dances  flies. 

You  doubt  we  read  the  stars  on  high, 
Nathless  we  read  your  fortunes  true ; 

The  stars  may  hide  in  the  upper  sky, 
But  without  glass  we  fathom  you. 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 


THE  SKY-LAKK. 

Bird  of  the  -wilderness, 

Blithsome  and  cumberless, 
Light  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea ! 

Emblem  of  happiness ! 

Bless'd  is  thy  dwelling-place! 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud ; 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 

"Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Where  art  thou  journeying? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day; 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  cherub,  hie,  hie  thee  away ! 

Then  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather-blooms, 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be: 

Emblem  of  happiness ! 

Bless'd  is  thy  dwelling-place ! 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

JAMES  Hoco. 


SCENE    FROM 

"THE  TRYAL,   A  COMEDY." 

BY   JOANNA   BAILLIE. 

[Joanna  Baillie,  born  in  Bothwell,  Lan&rKshire, 
1702;  died  at  llampstead,  London,  23d  February,  1S51. 
She  made  her  reputation  by  her  PUiys  on  the  Patsiont, 
the  first  volume  of  which  appeared  in  1798.  The  prin- 
ciple she  adopted  was  to  make  one  play  subservient  to 
the  development  of  one  particular  passion,  as  lovo,  hate, 
envy,  and  so  on.  She  attempted  to  reveal  the  serious 
and  the  absurd  aspect  of  each  humour  in  the  course  of 
a  tragedy  and  a  comedy.  The  idea  was  novel,  and  at- 
tracted attention ;  but  the  theory  narrowed  the  develop- 
ment of  her  genius,  and  it  was  only  the  possession  of 
rare  poetical  gifts  which  rendered  the  result  successful. 
For  the  stage  they  are  unsuitable,  owing  to  the  absence 
of  that  variety  of  passion  which  is  requisite  in  dramatic 
representations.  "  De  Montfort"  was  produced  on  the 
London  stage  in  1801,  with  John  Philip  Kemble  and 
Mrs.  Siddons  in  the  leading  parts,  and  again  in  1821 
with  Edmund  Ke an  as  the  hero.  On  both  occasions  it 
was  comparatively  a  failure,  in  spite  of  the  ability 
and  popularity  of  the  principal  actors.  The  "Family 
Legend  "  was  played  in  Edinburgh  in  1810,  the  prepara- 
tion having  been  superintended  by  Scott,  who  wrote  a 
prologue  for  it,  whilst  Henry  Mackenzie  wrote  an  epi- 
logue. The  production  was  successful,  and  the  play 
was  afterwards  brought  out  in  London.  The  merits  of 
her  compositions  can  only  be  properly  estimated  in  the 
study,  and  they  will  always  hold  a  high  place  in  litera- 
ture. "The  Tryal,  a  Comedy,"  is  the  companion  play  of 
"  Count  Basil,  a  Tragedy."  She  has  also  written  a  num- 
ber of  Scotch  songs,  which  are  still  popular.  Amongst 
others,  The  Gmcan  Glitters  on  the  Sward,  Woo'd  and 
Mari-ied  and  a',  and  Hooly  and  Fairly.] 

MB.  WITHRTNGTON'S  house:  Eiiter  Withrington  and  hit 
two  Nieces  Agnes  end  Mnrinne,  hanging  upon  hit  arms, 
coaxing  him  in  a  playful  mutintr  as  they  advance  to- 
wards the  front  of  the  stage. 

With.  Poo,  poo,  get  along,  young  gipsies, 
and  don't  tease  me  any  more. 

Ag.  So  we  will,  my  good  sir,  when  you  have 
granted  our  suit. 

Mar.  Do,  dear  uncle,  it  will  be  so  pleasant ! 

With.  Get  along,  get  along.  Don't  think  to 
wheedle  me  into  it.  It  would  be  very  pleasant, 
truly,  to  see  an  old  fellow,  with  a  wig  upon  his 
bald  pate,  making  one  in  a  holiday  mummery 
with  a  couple  of  mad-caps. 

Ag  Nay,  don't  lay  the  fault  upon  the  wig, 
good  sir,  for  it  is  as  youthful,  and  as  sly,  and 
as  saucy-looking  as  the  best  head  of  hair  in  the 
country.  As  for  your  old  wig,  indeed,  there 
was  so  much  curmudgeon-like  austerity  about 
it,  that  young  people  fled  from  before  it,  as.  I 
daresay,  the  birds  do  at  present,  for  I  am  sure 
that  it  is  stuck  up  in  some  cherry-orchard,  by 
this  time,  to  frighten  the  sparrows. 


SCENE  FROM  THE  TRYAL. 


213 


With.  You  are  mistaken,  young  mistress, 
it  is  up-stairs  in  my  wig-box. 

Ay.  Well,  I  am  glad  it  is  anywhere  but  upon 
your  pate,  uncle.  (Turning  his  face  towards 
Mariane. )  Look  at  him,  pray;  is  he  not  ten 
years  younger  since  he  wore  it?  Is  there  one 
bit  of  an  old  grumbler  to  be  seen  about  him 
now? 

Mar.  He  is  no  more  like  the  man  he  was  than 
I  am  like  my  god-mother.  (Clapping  his 
shoulder.)  You  must  even  do  as  we  have  bid 
you,  sir,  for  this  excuse  will  never  bring  you 
off. 

With.  Poo,  poo,  it  is  a  foolish  girl's  whimsy : 
I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

Ag.  It  is  a  reasonable  woman's  desire,  gentle 
guardian,  and  you  must  consent  to  it.  For  if 
I  am  to  marry  at  all,  I  am  resolved  to  have  a 
respectable  man  and  a  man  who  is  attached  to 
me,  and  to  find  out  such  a  one,  in  my  present 
situation,  is  impossible.  I  am  provoked  be- 
yond all  patience  with  your 'old  greedy  lords, 
and  match-making  aunts,  introducing  their 
poor  noodle  heirs-apparen-t  to  me.  Your  am- 
bitious esquires  and  proud  obsequious  baronets 
are  intolerable,  and  your  rakish  younger  brothers 
are  nauseous:  such  creatures  only  surround  me, 
whilst  men  of  sense  keep  at  a  distance,  and 
think  me  as  foolish  as  the  company  I  keep. 
One  would  swear  I  was  made  of  amber,  to 
attract  all  the  dust  and  chaff  of  the  com- 
munity. 

With.  There  is  some  truth  in  this,  'faith. 

Ag.  You  see  how  it  is  with  me:  so  my  dear, 
loving,  good  uncle  (coaxing  him),  do  let  Mariane 
take  my  place  for  a  little  while.  We  are  newly 
come  to  Bath;  nobody  knows  us:  we  have  been 
but  at  one  ball,  and  as  Mariane  looks  so  much 
better  than  me,  she  has  already  been  mistaken 
for  the  heiress,  and  I  for  her  portionless  cousin : 
I  have  told  you  how  we  shall  manage  it;  do  lend 
us  your  assistance ! 

With.  So  in  the  disguise  of  a  portionless 
spinster,  you  are  to  captivate  some  man  of 
sense,  I  suppose? 

Ag.  I  would  fain  have  it  so. 

With.  Go,  go,  thou  art  a  fool,  Agnes!  who 
will  fall  in  love  with  a  little  ordinary  girl  like 
thce?  why,  there  is  not  one  feature  in  thy  face 
that  a  man  would  give  a  farthing  for. 

Mar.  You  are  veiy  saucy,  uncle. 

Ag.  I  should  despair  of  my  beauty,  to  be 
sure,  since  I  am  reckoned  so  much  like  you, 
my  dear  sir;  yet  old  nurse  told  me  that  a  rich 
lady,  a  great  lady,  and  the  prettiest  lady  that 
ever  wore  silk,  fell  in  love,  once  on  a  time, 
with  Mr.  Anthony,  and  would  have  followed 
him  to  the  world's  end  too,  if  it  had  not  been 


for  an  old  hunks  of  a  father,  who  deserved  to 
be  drubbed  for  his  pains  Don't  you  think  he 
did,  sir? 

With,  (endeavouring  to  look  angry).  Old 
nurse  is  a  fool,  and  you  are  an  impudent  hussy. 
I'll  hear  no  more  of  this  nonsense.  (Breaks 
from  them  and  goes  towards  the  door:  they  run 
after  him,  and  draw  him  back  again. ) 

Ag.  Nay,  good  sir,  we  have  not  quite  done 
with  you  yet:  grant  our  request,  and  then 
scamper  off  as  you  please. 

Mar.  I'll  hold  both  your  arms  till  you  grant 
it. 

With,  (to  Mar.)  And  what  makes  you  so 
eager  about  it,  young  lady?  you  expect,  I  sup- 
pose, to  get  a  husband  by  the  trick.  0  fy,  fy ! 
the  poorest  girl  in  England  would  blush  at  such 
a  thought,  who  calls  herself  an  honest  one. 

Ag.  And  Mariane  would  reject  the  richest 
man  in  England  who  could  harbour  such  a 
suspicion.  But  give  yourself  no  uneasiness 
about  this,  sir;  she  need  not  go  a  husband- 
hunting,  for  she  is  already  engaged.  — (Mariane 
looks  frightened,  and  makes  signs  to  Agnes  over 
her  uncle's  shoulder,  which  she  answers  with  a 
smile  of  encouragement. ) 

With.  Engaged!  she  is  very  good,  truly,  to 
manage  all  this  matter  herself,  being  afraid  to 
give  me  any  trouble,  I  suppose.  And  pray 
what  fool  has  she  picked  out  from  the  herd,  to 
enter  into  this  precious  engagement  with? 

Ag.  A  foolish  enough  fellow,  to  be  sure,  your 
favourite  nephew,  cousin  Edward. 

Wit.  Hang  the  silly  booby !  how  could  he  be 
such  an  idiot!  but  it  can't  be,  it  shan't  be! — 
it  is  folly  to  put  myself  into  a  passion  about  it. 
(To  Mariane,  who  puts  her  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der to  soothe  him.)  Hold  off  your  hands, 
ma'am !  This  is  news  indeed  to  amuse  me  with 
of  a  morning. 

Ag.  Yes,  uncle,  and  I  can  tell  you  more 
news;  for  they  are  not  only  engaged,  but  as 
soon  as  he  returns  from  abroad  they  are  to  "be 
married. 

With.  Well,  well,  let  them  many  in  the 
devil's  name,  and  go  a  begging  if  they  please. 

Ag.  No,  gentle  guardian,  they  need  not  go 
a  begging;  they  will  have  a  good  fortune  to 
support  them. 

With.  Yes,  yes,  they  will  get  a  prize  in  the 
lottery,  or  find  out  the  philosopher's  stone,  and 
coin  their  old  shoes  into  guineas. 

Ag.  No,  sir,  it  is  not  that  way  the  fortune 
is  to  come. 

With.  No;  he  has  been  following  some 
knight-errant,  then,  I  suppose,  and  will  have 
an  island  in  the  South  Sea  for  his  pains. 

Ag.  No,  you  have  not  guessed  it  yet.    (Strok- 


214 


SONNET. 


inr/  his  hand  gently.)  Did  you  never  hear  of  a 
good,  kind,  rich  uncle  of  theirs,  the  generous 
Mr.  Withrington?  he  is  to  settle  a  handsome 
provision  upon  them  as  soon  as  they  are  married, 
and  leave  them  his  fortune  at  last. 

With,  (lifting  up  his  hand).  Well,  I  must 
say  thou  art  the  sauciest  little  jade  in  the 
kingdom !  But  did  you  never  hear  that  this 
worthy  uncle  of  theirs,  having  got  a  new  wig, 
which  makes  him  ten  years  younger  than  he 
was,  is  resolved  to  embrace  the  opportunity, 
and  seek  out  a  wife  for  himself? 

Ag.  0!  that  is  nothing  to  the  purpose;  for 
what  I  have  said  about  the  fortune  must  happen, 
though  he  should  seek  out  a  score  of  wives  for 
himself. 

With.  Must  happen!  but  I  say  it  shall  not 
happen.  Whether  should  you  or  I  know 
best? 

Ag.  Why  me,  to  be  sure. 

With.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  how  so,  baggage? 

Ag.  (resting  her  arm  on  his  shoulder,  looking 
archly  in  his  face).  You  don't  know,  perhaps, 
that  when  I  went  to  Scotland  last  summer,  I 
travelled  far  and  far,  as  the  tale  says,  and 
farther  than  I  can  tell;  till  I  came  to  the  isle 
of  Skye,  where  everybody  has  the  second  sight, 
and  has  nothing  to  do  but  tear  a  little  hole  in 
a  tartan-plaidy,  and  peering  through  it  in  this 
manner,  sees  every  thing  past,  present,  and  to 
come.  Now,  you  must  know,  I  gave  an  old 
woman  half-a-crown  and  a  roll  of  tobacco  for  a 
peep  or  two  through  her  plaid,  and  what  do 
you  think  I  saw,  uncle? 

With.  The  devil  dancing  a  hornpipe,  I  sup- 
pose. 

Ag.  There  was  somebody  dancing,  to  be  sure, 
but  it  was  not  the  devil  though.  Who  do  you 
think  it  was  now? 

With.  Poo,  poo! 

Ag.  It  was  uncle  himself,  at  Mariane's  wed- 
ding, leading  down  the  first  dance,  with  the 
bride.  I  saw  a  sheet  of  parchment  in  a  corner 
too,  signed  with  his  own  blessed  hand,  and  a  very 
handsome  settlement  it  was.  So  he  led  down 
the  first  dance  himself,  and  we  all  followed 
after  him,  as  merry  as  so  many  hay-makers. 

With.  Thou  hast  had  a  sharp  sight,  'faith ! 

Ag.  And  I  took  a  second  peep  through  the 
plaidy,  and  what  do  you  think  I  saw  then, 
sir? 

With.  Nay,  prate  on  as  thou  wilt. 

Ag.  A  genteel  family  house  where  Edward 
and  Mariane  dwelt,  and  several  little  brats 
running  up  and  down  in  it.  Some  of  them  so 
tall,  and  so  tall,  and  some  of  them  no  taller 
than  this.  And  there  came  good  uncle  amongst 
them,  and  they  all  flocked  about  him  so  mer- 


rily; everybody  was  so  glad  to  see  him,  the 
very  scullions  from  the  kitchen  were  glad; 
and  methought  he  looked  as  well  pleased  him- 
self as  any  of  them.  Don't  you  think  he 
did,  sir? 

With.  Have  done  with  thy  prating. 

Ag.  I  have  not  done  yet,  good  sir;  for  I  took 
another  peep  still,  and  then  I  saw  a  most  dismal 
changed  family  indeed.  There  was  a  melan- 
choly sick-bed  set  out  in  the  best  chamber; 
every  face  was  sad,  and  all  the  children  were 
weeping.  There  was  one  dark-eyed  rogue 
amongst  them,  called  little  Anthony,  and  he 
threw  away  his  bread  and  butter,  and  roared 
like  a  young  bull,  for  woe's  me!  old  uncle  was 
dying.  ( Observing  Withrington  affected.)  But 
old  uncle  recovered  though,  and  looked  as  stout 
as  a  veteran  again.  So  I  gave  the  old  woman 
her  plaidy,  and  would  not  look  through  any 
more. 

With.  Thou  art  the  wildest  little  witch  in  the 
world,  and  wilt  riever  be  at  rest  till  thou  hast 
got  everything  thine  own  way,  I  believe. 

Ag.  I  thank  you,  I  thank  you,  dear  uncle! 
(leaping  round  his  neck),  it  shall  be  even  so, 
and  I  shall  have  my  own  little  boon  into  the 
bargain. 

With.  I  did  not  say  so. 

Ag.  But  I  know  it  will  be  so,  and  many  thanks 
to  you,  my  dear  good  uncle !  (Mariane  ventures 
to  come  from  behind, — Withrington  looks  gently 
to  her,  she  holds  out  her  hand,  he  hesitates,  and 
Agnes  joins  their  hands  together,  giving  them 
a  hearty  shake.) 

With.  Come,  come,  let  me  get  away  from  you 
now :  you  are  a  couple  of  insinuating  gipsies. 
LExiT  hastily. 


SONNET. 

What  art  them,  MIGHTY  ONE  !  and  where  thy  seat? 

Thou  broodest  on  the  calm  that  cheers  the  lands. 

And  thou  dost  bear  within  thine  awful  hands 
The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet; 
Stern  on  thy  dark-wrought  car  of  cloud  and  wind, 

Thou  guid'st  the  northern  storm  at  night's  dead  noon; 

Or,  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  monsoon, 
Disturb'st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Ind. 
In  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 

Dost  thou  repose?  or  in  the  solitude 
Of  sultry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 

Hears  nightly  howl  the  tiger's  hungry  brood? 
Vain  thought !  the  confines  of  his  throne  to  trace. 
Who  glows  through  all  the  fields  of  boundless  space. 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITS. 


SERVIAN   LYRIC. 


215 


TO  THE  MOON. 

[John  Keats,  born  in  Moorfields,  London,  29th 
October,  1796;  died  at  Rome,  24th  February,  1821. 
Whilst  at  school,  and  whilst  serving  his  apprenticeship 
to  a  surgeon  at  Edmonton,  Keats  was  an  earnest  student. 
In  1S17  he  published  a  volume  of  juvenile  verses,  and 
in  the  following  year,  Enilymion,  a  Poetic  Romance. 
This  poem  was  severely  criticized  by  the  Quarterly  Re- 
view, and  it  was  for  some  time  the  popular  belief  that 
the  harsh  criticism  was  the  immediate  cause  of  the  poet's 
early  death.  On  this  subject  Byron  wrote  :— 
"  Who  killed  John  Keats?, 

'I,'  says  the  Quarterly, 

So  savage  and  tartarly, 

'  'Twas  one  of  my  feats.'" 

The  fact  was,  however,  that  he  died  of  consumption, 
and  it  was  the  hope  of  finding  some  relief  from  that 
ailment  which  caused  him  to  proceed  to  the  Continent. 
Ill  1820  he  issued  his  third  and  last  volume,  containing 
Lamia,  Isabella,  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  and  Hi/t>(i-i'>n. 
His  poetry  is  characterized  by  profuse  imagery  and 
redundant  fancy.] 

O  Moon  !  the  oldest  shades  'mong  oldest  trees 
Feel  palpitations  when  thou  lookest  in : 
O  Moon  !  old  boughs  lisp  forth  a  holier  din 
The  while  they  feel  thine  airy  fellowship. 
Thou  dost  bless  everywhere,  with  silver  lip 
Kissing  dead  things  to  life.     The  sleeping  kine. 
Couched  in  thy  brightness,  dream  of  fields  divine  : 
Innumerable  mountains  rise,  and  rise, 
Ambitious  for  the  hallowing  of  thine  eyes ; 
And  yet  thy  benediction  passeth  not 
One  obscure  hiding-placa,  one  little  spot 
Where  pleasure  may  be  sent :  the  nested  wren 
Hiis  thy  fair  face  within  its  tranquil  ken ; 
And  from  beneath  a  sheltering  ivy  leaf 
Takes  glimpses  of  thee :  thou  art  a  relief 
To  the  poor  patient  oyster,  where  it  sleeps 
Within  its  pearly  house.     The  mighty  deeps, 
The  monstrous  sea  is  thine— the  myriad  sea ! 

0  Moon !  far-spooming  Ocean  bows  to  thee. 
And  Tellus  feels  her  forehead's  cumbrous  load. 

What  is  there  in  thee,  Moon !  that  thou  should'st 

move 
My  heart  so  potently?    When  yet  a  child 

1  oft  have  dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast  smiled. 
Thou  seem'dst  my  sister :  hand  in  hand  we  went 
From  eve  to  mom  across  the  firmament. 

No  apples  would  I  gather  from  the  tree, 

Till  thou  hadst  cool'd  their  cheeks  deliciously: 

No  tumbling  water  ever  spake  romance, 

But  when  my  eyes  with  thine  thereon  could  dance : 

No  woods  were  green  enough,  no  bower  divine, 

Until  thou  liftedst  up  thine  eyelids  fine  : 

In  sowing  time  ne'er  would  I  dibble  take, 

Or  drop  a  seed,  till  thou  wast  wide  awake; 

And,  in  the  summer  tide  of  blossoming. 

No  one  but  thee  hath  heard  me  blithely  sing, 


And  mesh  my  dewy  flowers  all  the  night. 

No  melody  was  like  a  passing  spright 

If  it  went  not  to  solemnize  thy  reign. 

Yes,  in  my  boyhood,  every  joy  and  pain 

By  thee  were  fashioned  to  the  self-same  end; 

And  as  I  grew  in  years,  still  didst  thou  blend 

With  all  my  ardours  :  thou  wast  the  deep  glea— 

Thou  wast  the  mountain-top — the  sage's  pen — 

The  poet's  harp — the  voice  of  friends— the  sun; 

Thou  wast  the  river — thou  wast  gloi-y  won ; 

Thou  wast  my  clarion's  blast — thou  wast  my  steed— 

My  goblet  full  of  wine— my  topmost  deed :  — 

Thou  wast  the  charm  of  women,  lovely  Moon  J 

O  what  a  wild  and  harmonized  tune 

My  spirit  struck  from  all  the  beautiful  I 

On  some  bright  essence  could  I  lean,  and  lull 

Myself  to  immortality. 


SERVIAN  LYRIC.1 

Was  it  a  vine,  with  clusters  white, 

That  clung  round  Buda's  stateliest  tower? 
O  no  :  it  was  a  lady  bright, 
That  hung  upon  an  armed  knight — 
It  was  their  parting  hour. 

They  had  been  wedded  in  their  youth : 
Together  they  had  spent  their  bloom ; 

That  hearts  so  long  entwined  in  truth 

Asunder  should  be  torn  in  ruth, 
It  was  a  cruel  doom. 

"Go  forth,"  she  said,  "pursue  thy  way; 

But  some  fair  garden  shouldst  thou  see, 
Alone  among  the  arbours  stray, 
And  pluck  a  rose-leaf  from  the  spray. 

The  freshest  there  may  b« ; 

"Unclasp  thy  mail,  when  none  is  by, 
That  leaf  upon  thy  breast  to  lay. 

How  soon  'twill  wither,  fade,  and  die. 

Observe— for  that  poor  leaf  am  I, 
From  thee,  my  stem  away." 

"And  thou,  my  soul,"  the  soldier  said, 

"When  I  am  wandering  faint  and  far, 
Go  thou  to  our  own  greenwood  shade, 
Where  I  the  marble  fountain  made, 
And  placed  the  golden  jar. 

"At  noon  I  filled  my  jar  with  wine, 

And  dropp'd  therein  a  ball  of  snow, 
Lay  that  on  this  warm  heart  of  thine, 
And  while  it  melts  behold  me  pine 
In  solitary  woe." 

SIR  JOHN  BOWRIJTO. 


i  From  "Translations  from  the  Servian  Minstrelsy,' 
&c. ,  London,  1826,  4to. 


216 


JOURNAL  OF  A  LADY  OF  FASHION. 


JOURNAL  OF    A   LADY   OF   FASHION. 

[Marguerite,  Countess  of  Blessington,  born  at 
Knockbut,  Tipperary,  1787 ;  died  in  Paris,  4th  June. 
1849.  She  was  the  second  daughter  of  Mr.  Edmund 
Power  of  Carrabeen.  She  was  twice  married,  her  second 
husband  being  Charles  John  Gardiner,  Earl  of  Bless- 
ington.  After  the  earl's  death  (1829),  the  countess  estab- 
lished herself  at  Gore  House,  which  became  the  resort  of 
all  the  celebrities  of  the  day.  She  was  famous  as  much 
on  account  of  her  beauty' as  her  wit,  and  Byron  has  left 
hw  testimony  to  the  former  in  his  verses  addressed  to 
her : — 

"  Were  I  now-  as  I  was,  I  had  sung 

What  Lawrence  has  painted  so  well ; 
But  the  strain  would  expire  on  my  tongue, 
And  the  theme  is  too  soft  for  my  shell." 

She  wrote  over  a  dozan  novels,  several  gossipping 
books  of  travel,  numerous  short  tales,  and  for  seveu 
years  edited  the  Ketpgake  and  Geiii*  of  Beauti/  annuals. 
Her  most  notable  works  are :  Cimvct'satioru  with  Lard 
Byron:  The  Idler  in  Italy:  Th-Adltr  in  France  (contain- 
ing sketches  of  the  most  eminent  home  and  foreign 
statesmen  and  men  of  letters);  Tke  Belle  of  tke  Seas'in; 
Victims  of  Society ;  and  Sketches  and  Fragments,  from 
which  the  following  u  taken.] 

Monday.  — Awoke  with  a  headache,  the  cer- 
tain effect  of  being  bored  all  the  evening  before 
by  the  never-dying  strain  at  the  Countess  of 
Leyden's.  Nothing  ever  was  half  so  tiresome 
as  musical  parties:  no  one  gives  them  except 
those  who  can  exhibit  themselves,  and  fancy 
they  excel.  If  you  speak,  during  the  perform- 
ance of  one  of  their  endless  pieces,  they  look 
cross  and  affronted:  except  that  all  the  world 
of  fashion  are  there,  I  never  would  go  to 
another;  for,  positively,  it  is  ten  times  more 
fatiguing  than  staying  at  home.  To  be  com.- 
pelled  to  look  charmed,  and  to  applaud,  when 
you  are  half-dead  from  suppressing  yawns,  and 
to  see  half-a-dozen  very  tolerable  men,  with 
whom  one  could  have  had  a  very  pleasant  chat, 
except  for  the  stupid  music,  is  really  too  bad. 
Let  me  see,  what  have  I  done  this  day  ?  Oh ! 
I  remember  everything  went  wrong,  as  it 
always  does  when  I  have  a  headache.  Flounce, 
more  than  usually  stupid,  tortured  my  hair; 
and  I  flushed  my  face  by  scolding  her.  I  wish 
people  could  scold  without  getting  red,  for  it 
disfigures  one  for  the  whole  day;  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  this  always  makes  me  more  angry, 
as  I  think  it  doubly  provoking  in  Flounce  to 
discompose  me,  when  she  must  know  it  spoils 
my  looks. 

Dressing  from  twelve  to  three.  Madame 
Tornure  sent  me  a  most  unbecoming  cap :  mem. 
I  shall  leave  her  off  when  I  have  paid  her  bill. 
Heigh-ho,  wlieu  will  that  be?  Tormented  by 


duns,  jewellers,  mercers,  milliners :  I  think 
they  always  fix  on  Mondays  for  dunning:  I 
suppose  it  is  because  they  know  one  is  sure  to 
be  horribly  vapoured  after  a  Sunday-evening's 
party,  and  they  like  to  increase  one's  miseries. 
Just  as  I  was  stepping  into  my  carriage, 
fancying  that  I  had  got  over  the  desagr&nens 
of  the  day,  a  letter  arrives  to  say  that  my 
mother  is  very  ill  and  wants  to  see  me :  drove 
to  Grosvenor  Square  in  no  very  good  humour 
for  nursing,  and,  as  I  expected,  found  that 
Madame  Ma  Mere  fancies  herself  much  worse 
than  she  really  is.  Advised  her  to  have  dear 
Dr.  Emulsion,  who  always  tells  people  they 
are  not  in  danger,  and  who  never  disturbs  his 
patient's  mind  with  the  idea  of  death  until  the 
moment  of  its  arrival :  found  my  sister  support- 
ing mamma's  head  on  her  bosom,  and  heard  that 
she  had  sat  up  all  night  with  her:  by-the-by, 
she  did  not  look  half  so  fatigued  and  ennuied 
as  I  did.  They  seemed  both  a  little  surprised 
at  my  leaving  them  so  soon;  but  really  there 
is  no  standing  a  sick  room  in  May.  My  sister 
begged  of  me  to  come  soon  again,  and  cast  a 
look  of  alarm  (meant  only  for  my  eye)  at  my 
mother;  I  really  think  she  helps  to  make  her 
hippish,  for  she  is  always  fancying  her  in 
danger.  Made  two  or  three  calls:  drove  in 
the  park:  saw  Belmont,  who  looked  as  if  he 
expected  to  see  me,  and  who  asked  if  I  was  to 
be  at  the  Duchess  of  Winterton's  to-night.  I 
promised  to  go — he  seemed  delighted.  What 
would  Lady  Allendale  say,  if  she  saw  the  plea- 
sure which  the  assurance  of  my  going  gave 
him?  I  long  to  let  her  see  my  triumph.  Dined 
tete-a-ttte, — my  lord  very  sulky — abused  my 
friend  Lady  Winstanley,  purposely  to  pique 
me — he  wished  me  not  to  go  out ;  said  it  was 
shameful,  and  mamma  so  ill;  just  as  if  my 
staying  at  home  would  make  her  any  better. 
Found  a  letter  from  madame  the  governess, 
saying  that  the  children  want  frocks  and  stock- 
ings:— they  are  always  wanting: — I  do  really 
believe  they  wear  out  their  things  purposely  to 
plague  me.  Dressed  for  the  Duchess  of  Win- 
terton's :  wore  my  new  Parisian  robe  of  blonde 
lace,  trimmed,  in  the  most  divine  way,  with 
lilies  of  the  valley.  Flounce  said  I  looked 
myself,  and  I  believe  there  was  some  truth  in 
it ;  for  the  little  discussion  with  my  Caro  had 
given  an  animation  and  lustre  to  my  eyes.  I 
gave  Flounce  my  puce-coloured  satin  pelisse  as 
a  peace-offering  for  the  morning  scold. — The 
party  literally  full  almost  to  suffocation.  Bel- 
mont was  hovering  near  the  door  of  the  ante- 
room, as  if  waiting  my  approach:  he  said  I 
never  looked  so  resplendent:  Lady  Allendale 
appeared  ready  to  die  with  envy — very  few 


JOURNAL  OF  A  LADY  OF  FASHION. 


217 


handsome  women  in  the  room — and  still  fewer 
well  dressed.  Looked  in  at  Lady  Calderwood's 
and  Mrs.  Burnet's.  Belmont  followed  me  to 
each.  Came  home  at  half-past  three  o'clock, 
tired  to  death,  and  had  my  lovely  dress  torn 
past  all  chance  of  repair,  by  coming  in  contact 
•with  the  button  of  one  of  the  footmen  in  Mrs. 
B.'s  hall.  This  is  very  provoking,  for  I  dare 
say  Madame  Tornure  will  charge  abominably 
high  for  it.  i 

Tuesday. — Awoke  in  good  spirits,  having 
had  delightful  dreams: — sent  to  know  how 
mamma  felt,  and  heard  she  had  a  bad  night: 
— must  call  there,  if  I  can: — wrote  madame  a 
lecture,  for  letting  the  children  wear  out  their 
clothes  so  fast:  Flounce  says  they  wear  out 
twice  as  many  things  as  Lady  Woodland's 
children.  Head  a  few  pages  of  Amelia  Mans- 
field: very  affecting:  put  it  by  for  fear  of 
making  my  eyes  red.  Lady  Mortimer  came 
to  see  me,  and  told  me  a  great  deal  of  scandal 
chit-chat :  she  is  very  amusing.  I  did  not  get 
out  until  past  five:  too  late  then  to  go  and  see 
mamma.  Drove  in  the  park  and  saw  Lady 
Litchfield  walking:  got  out  and  joined  her: 
the  people  stared  a  good  deal.  Belmont  left 
his  horse  and  came  to  us:  he  admired  my  walk- 
ing dress  very  much. — Dined  alone,  and  so 
escaped  a  lecture: — had  not  nerves  sufficient  to 
see  the  children — they  make  such  a  noise  and 
spoil  one's  clothes.  Went  to  the  opera :  wore 
my  tissue  turban,  which  has  a  good  effect. 
Belmont  came  to  my  box  and  sat  every  other 
visitor  out.  My  lord  came  in  and  looked,  as 
usual,  sulky.  Wanted  me  to  go  away  without 
waiting  for  the  dear  delightful  squeeze  of  the 
round  room.  My  lord  scolded  the  whole  way 
home,  and  said  I  should  have  been  by  the  sick- 
bed of  my  mother  instead  of  being  at  the  opera. 
I  hummed  a  tune,  which  I  find  is  the  best  mode 
of  silencing  him,  and  he  muttered  something 
about  my  being  unfeeling  and  incorrigible. 

Wednesday. — Did  not  rise  till  past  one 
o'clock,  and  from  three  to  five  was  occupied 
in  trying  on  dresses  and  examining  new  trim- 
mings. Determined  on  not  calling  to  see 
mamma  this  day,  because,  if  I  found  her  much 
worse,  I  might  be  prevented  from  going  to 
Almack's,  which  I  have  set  my  heart  on: — 
drove  out  shopping,  and  bought  some  lovely 
things: — met  Belmont,  who  gave  me  a  note 
which  he  begged  me  to  read  at  my  leisure: — 
had  half  a  mind  to  refuse  taking  it,  but  felt  con- 
fused, and  he  went  away  before  I  recovered 
my  self-possession: — almost  determined  on  re- 
turning it  without  breaking  the  seal,  and  put 
it  into  my  reticule  with  this  intention ;  but 
somehow  or  other  my  curiosity  prevailed,  and 


I  opened  it. — Found  it  filled  with  hearts,  and 
darts,  and  declarations: — felt  very  angry  at 
first ;  for  really  it  is  very  provoking  tnat  one 
can't  have  a  comfortable  little  flirtation  half-a- 
dozen  times  with  a  man,  but  that  he  fancies  he 
may  declare  his  passion,  and  so  bring  on  a 
denouement;  for  one  must  either  cut  the  crea- 
ture, which,  if  he  is  amusing,  is  disagreeable, 
or  else  he  thinks  himself  privileged  to  repeat 
his  love  on  every  occasion.  How  very  silly 
men  are  in  acting  thus ;  for  if  they  continued 
their  assiduities  without  a  positive  declaration, 
one  might  affect  to  misunderstand  their  atten- 
tions, however  marked  ;  but  those  decided  de- 
clarations leave  nothing  to  the  imagination ; 
and  offended  modesty,  with  all  the  guards  of 
female  propriety,  are  indispensably  up  in  arms. 
I  remember  reading  in  some  book  that  "A 
man  has  seldom  an  offer  of  kindness  to  make 
to  a  woman,  that  she  has  not  a  presentiment 
of  it  some  moments  before;"  and  I  think  it 
was  in  the  same  book  that  I  read,  that  a  con- 
tinuation of  quiet  attentions,  leaving  their 
meaning  to  the  imagination,  is  the  best  mode 
of  gaining  a  female  heart.  My  own  experi- 
ence has  proved  the  truth  of  this. — I  wish 
Belmont  had  not  written  to  me: — I  don't  know 
what  to  do: — how  shocked  my  mother  and 
sister  would  be  if  they  knew  it ! — I  have  pro- 
mised to  dance  with  him  at  Almack's  too: — 
how  disagreeable !  I  shall  take  the  note  and 
return  it  to  him,  and  desire  that  he  will  not 
address  me  again  in  that  style.  I  have  read 
the  note  again,  and  I  really  believe  he  loves 
me  very  much: — poor  fellow,  I  pity  him: — 
how  vexed  Lady  Winstanley  would  be  if  she 
knew  it ! — I  must  not  be  very  angry  with  him: 
I'll  look  grave  and  dignified,  and  so  awe  him, 
but  not  be  too  severe.  I  have  looked  over  the 
billet  again,  and  don't  find  it  so  presumptuous 
as  I  first  thought  it: — -after  all,  there  is  nothing 
to  be  angry  about,  for  fifty  women  of  rank  have 
had  the  same  sort  of  thing  happen  to  them 
without  any  mischief  following  it.  Belmont 
says  I  am  a  great  prude,  and  I  believe  I  am ; 
for  I  frequently  find  myself  recurring  to  the 
sage  maxims  of  mamma  and  my  sister,  and 
asking  myself  what  would  they  think  of  so  and 
so.  Lady  Winstanley  laughs  at  them  and  calls 
them  a  couple  of  precise  quizzes ;  but  still  I 
have  remarked  how  much  more  lenient  they 
are  to  a  fault  than  she  is.  Heigh-ho,  I  am 
afraid  they  have  been  too  lenient  to  mine: — 
but  I  must  banish  melancholy  reflections,  and 
dress  for  Almack's.  Flounce  told  me,  on 
finishing  my  toilette,  that  I  was  armed  for 
conquest;  and  that  I  never  looked  so  beautiful. 
Mamma  would  not  much  approve  of  Flounce's 


218 


JOURNAL  OF  A  LADY  OF  FASHION. 


familiar  mode  of  expressing  her  admiration ; 
but,  poor  soul,  she  only  says  what  she  thinks. 
- — I  have  observed  that  my  lord  dislikes  Flounce 
very  much ;  but  so  he  does  every  one  that  I 
like. 

Never  was  there  such  a  delightful  ball: — 
though  I  am  fatigued  beyond  measure,  I  must 
note  down  this  night's  adventures:  I  found 
the  rooms  quite  filled,  and  narrowly  escaped 
being  locked  out  by  the  inexorable  regulations 
of  the  Lad}'  Patronesses,  for  it  only  wanted  a 
quarter  to  twelve  when  I  entered.  By-the-by, 
I  have  often  wondered  why  people  submit  to  the 
haughty  sway  of  those  ladies;  but  I  suppose  it 
is  that  most  persons  dislike  trouble,  and  so 
prefer  yielding  to  their  imperious  dictates  to 
incurring  a  displeasure,  which  would  be  too 
warmly  and  too  loudly  expressed,  not  to  alarm 
the  generality  of  quiet  people.  There  is  a 
quackery  in  fashion,  as  in  all  other  things,  and 
any  one  who  has  courage  enough  (I  was  going 
to  write  impudence),  rank  enough,  and  wealth 
enough,  may  be  a  leader.  But  here  am  I  mor- 
alizing on  the  requisites  of  a  leader  of  Fashion, 
when  I  should  be  noting  down  the  delicious 
scene  of  this  night  in  her  favourite  and  favoured 
temple.  I  tried  to  look  very  grave  at  poor 
Belmont;  but  the  lights,  the  music,  and  the 
gaiety  of  the  scene  around  me,  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  my  looking  more  than  usually 
well,  gave  such  an  exhilaration  to  my  spirits, 
that  I  could  not  contract  my  brows  into  any- 
thing like  a  frown,  and  without  a  frown,  or 
something  approaching  it,  it  is  impossible  to 
look  grave.  Belmont  took  advantage  of  my 
good  spirits  to  claim  my  hand  and  pressed  it 
very  much.  I  determined  to  postpone  my 
lecture  to  him  until  the  next  good  opportunity, 
for  a  ball-room  is  the  worst  place  in  the  world 
to  act  the  moral  or  sentimental.  Apropos  of 
Belmont,  what  have  I  done  with  his  note? — 
My  God,  what  a  scrape  have  I  got  into !  I 
left  my  reticule,  into  which  I  had  put  the 
note,  on  my  sofa,  and  the  note  bears  the  evident 
marks  of  having  been  opened  by  some  one  who 
could  not  fold  it  again:  it  must  have  been 
Flounce.  I  have  often  observed  her  curiosity 
— and  now  I  am  completely  in  her  power. 
What  shall  I  do?  After  serious  consideration, 
I  think  it  the  wisest  plan  to  appear  not  to  sus- 
pect her,  and  part  with  her  the  first  good  oppor- 
tunity. I  feel  all  over  in  a  tremor,  and  can 
write  no  more. 

Thursday. — Could  not  close  my  eyes  for 
three  hours  after  I  got  to  bed;  and  when  I 
did,  dreamed  of  nothing  but  detections,  duels, 
and  exposures: — awoke  terrified: — I  feel  ner- 
vous and  wretched: — Flounce  looks  more  than 


usually  important  and  familiar — or  is  it  con- 
science that  alarms  me?  Would  to  Heaven  I 
had  never  received  that  horrid  note — or  that  I 
had  recollected  to  take  it  to  Almack's  and  give 
it  back  to  him.  I  really  feel  quite  ill.  Madame 
requested  an  audience,  and  has  told  me  she 
can  no  longer  remain  in  my  family,  as  she 
finds  it  impossible  to  do  my  children  justice 
unassisted  by  me.  I  tried  to  persuade  her  to 
stay  another  quarter,  but  she  firmly,  but  civilly, 
declined.  This  is  very  provoking,  for  the 
children  are  fond  of  and  obedient  to  madame, 
and  I  have  had  no  trouble  since  she  has  been 
with  them ;  besides,  my  mother  recommended 
her,  and  will  be  annoyed  at  her  going.  I  must- 
write  to  madame  and  offer  to  double  her  salary; 
all  governesses,  at  least  all  that  I  have  tried, 
like  money.  I  must  lie  down,  I  feel  so  fatigued 
and  languid: — mamma  is  worse,  and  really  I 
am  unable  to  go  to  her ;  for  I  am  so  nervous 
that  I  could  be  of  no  use. 

Friday. — I  am  summoned  to  my  mother, 
and  my  lord  says  she  is  in  the  utmost  danger. 
Madame,  to  add  to  my  discomforts,  has  declined 
my  offers:  I  feel  a  strong  presentiment  of  evil, 
and  dread  I  know  not  what  .... 

Good  Heavens !  what  a  scene  have  I  wit- 
nessed— my  dear  and  excellent  mother  was  in- 
sensible when  I  got  to  her,  and  died  without 
seeing  or  blessing  me.  Oh  !  what  would  I  not 
give  to  recall  the  past,  or  to  bring  back  even 
the  last  fleeting  week,  that  I  might  atone,  in. 
some  degree,  for  my  folly — my  worse  than 
folly — my  selfish  and  cruel  neglect  of  the  best 
of  mothers !  Never  shall  I  cease  to  abhor 
myself  for  it.  Never  till  I  saw  that  sainted 
form  for  ever  insensible  did  I  feel  my  guilt. 
From  day  to  day  I  have  deceived  myself  with 
the  idea  that  her  illness  was  not  dangerous, 
and  silenced  all  the  whispers  of  affection  and 
duty,  to  pursue  my  selfish  and  heartless  plea- 
sures. How  different  are  the  resignation  and 
fortitude  of  my  sister,  from  my  frantic  grief ! 
she  has  nothing  to  accuse  herself  of,  and  knows 
that  her  care  and  attention  soothed  the  bed  of 
death.  But  how  differently  was  I  employed  ! 
distraction  is  in  the  thought ;  I  can  write  no 
more,  for  my  tears  efface  the  words. 

Saturday. — My  dear  and  estimable  sister 
has  been  with  me,  and  has  spoken  comfort  to 
my  afflicted  soul.  She  conveyed  to  me  a  letter 
from  my  sainted  parent,  written  a  few  hours 
before  her  death,  which  possibly  this  exertion 
accelerated.  The  veil  which  has  so  long  shrouded 
my  reason  is  for  ever  removed,  and  all  my  sel- 
fishnessandmisconduct  are  laid  bare  to  my  view. 
Oh  !  my  mother — you  whose  pure  counsel  and 
bright  example  in  life  could  not  preserve  your 


HYMN". 


219 


unworthy  child — from  the  bed  of  death  your 
last  effort  has  been  to  save  her.  As  a  daughter, 
a  wife,  and  a  mother,  how  have  I  blighted  your 
hopes  and  wounded  your  affections. 

My  sister  says,  that  my  mother  blessed  me 
with  her  last  words,  and  expressed  her  hopes 
that  her  dying  advice  would  snatch  me  from 
the  paths  of  error.  Those  dying  hopes,  and 
that  last  blessing,  shall  be  my  preservatives. 
I  will  from  this  hour  devote  myself  to  the  per- 
formance of  those  duties  that  I  have  so  shame- 
fully, so  cruelly  neglected.  My  husband,  my 
children — with  you  will  I  retire  from  those 
scenes  of  dissipation  and  folly,  so  fatal  to  my 
repose  and  virtue;  and  in  retirement  commune 
with  my  own  heart,  correct  its  faults,  and  en- 
deavour to  emulate  the  excellencies  of  my 
lamented  mother. 

Oh  !  may  my  future  conduct  atone  for  the 
pa.st — but  never,  never  let  the  remembrance 
of  my  errors  be  effaced  from  my  mind. 


HYMN 

BEFORE   SUNRISE   IN   THE   VALE   OF   CHAMOUNI. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  Morning-Star 
In  his  steep  course?    So  long  lie  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  BLAXC  ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Have  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form  ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently !    Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass :  methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge !    But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0  dread  and  silent  mount !  I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshipp'd  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yot,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  Thought, 
Yea,  with  my  Life  and  Life's  own  secret  Joy: 
Till  the  dilating  Soul,  em-apt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  Vision  prssing— there, 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swell'd  vast  to  Heaven  1 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstauy  !     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !     Awake,  my  Heart,  awake  1 
Green  Vales  and  icy  Cliffs,  all  join  my  Hymn. 


Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  Sovran  of  the  Vale ! 
O  struggling  with  the  Darkness  all  the  uight, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink: 
Companion  of  the  Morning  Star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  ROSY  STAR,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  :  wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise  I 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth? 
Who  fill'd  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 
Who  call'd  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death. 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  call'd  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
For  ever  shattered  and  the  same  for  ever? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came), 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 

Ye  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  Voice, 
And  stopp'd  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge  1 
Motionless  torrents !  silent  cataracts ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon?    Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows?    Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? — 
God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer !  and  let  the  ice  plains  echo,  God ! 
God  !  sing  ye  meadow  streams  with  gladsome  voice! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  1 

Ye  living  flow«rs  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  play-mates  of  the  mountain-storm ! 
Ye  lightnings,  tho  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  Avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  thro'  the  pure  serene 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breust— 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain  !  thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bow'd  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base, 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapoury  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me— Rise,  O  ever  rise, 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great  Hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun. 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praise*  God. 

COLERIDGE. 


220 


VULGARITY  AND  AFFECTATION. 


THE  FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY  AND 
THE   KNIFE-GRINDER. 

IN   ENGLISH   SAPPHICS. 

[Right  Hon.  George  Canning,  born  in  London,  llth 
April,  1770;  died  in  Cliiswick,  8th  August,  1827.  His 
lite  was  devoted  to  politics — it  is  said  at  the  instigation 
of  Sheridan — and  he  became  prime  minister  in  the 
beginning  of  the  year  in  which  he  died.  He  was  one 
ot'  the  champions  of  the  Catholic  Emancipation  move- 
ment. From  early  youth  he  was  in  the  habit  of  writ- 
ing prose  and  verse.  When  a  school-boy  at  Eton  he 
commenced  a  weekly  periodical  called  the  Microcosm, 
which  was  written  by  himself  and  two  companions. 
Tlie  following  satire  upon  the  extreme  republican  spirit 
to  which  the  French  Revolution  gave  so  great  an  im- 
petus, was  one  of  the  most  powerful  squibs  of  the 
period.  It  first  appeared  in  the  Anti-Jacobin,  and  the 
Rt.  Hon.  J.  H.  Fiere  is  said  to  have  written  part  of  it.] 

Friend  of  Humanity. 

"Needy  Knife  grinder,  whither  are  you  going? 
Rough  is  the  road,  your  wheel  is  out  of  order — 
Bleak  blows  the  blast;— your  hat  has  got  a  hole  in't, 
So  have  your  breeches ! 

"Weary  Knife-grinder !  little  think  the  proud  ones, 
Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike- 
Road,  what  hard  work  'tis  crying  all  day,  '  Knives  and 
Scissors  to  grind,  O ! 

"Tell  me.  Knife-grinder,  how  came  you  to  grind  knives? 
Did  some  rich  m:m  tyrannically  use  you? 
Was  it  the  squire?  or  parson  of  the  parish  ? 

Or  the  attorney? 

"Was  it  the  squire  for  killing  of  his  game?  or 
Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining? 
Or  roguish  lawyer  made  you  lose  your  little 

All  in  a  lawsuit? 

"  (Have  you  not  read  the  R  ifihts  of  Man,  by  Tom  Paine  ?) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 

Pitiful  story." 

Knife-grinder. 

"Story !  Lord  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir, 
Only  last  night  a  drinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 

Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

"Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody  :  they  took  me  before  the  Justice ; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish 

Stocks  for  a  vagrant. 

"I  should  bo  glad  to  drink  your  honour's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence; 
But  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 

With  politics,  sir." 


Friend  of  Humanity. 

"  I  give  thee  sixpence !  I  will  see  thee  damn'd  first — 
Wretch !  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse  to  ven- 
geance— 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 

Spiritless  outcast  1" 

(Kicks  the  Knift-grindtr,  overturns  his  icheel,  and  exit  in 
a  transport  of  republican  enthusiasm  and  universal 
philanthropy.) 


VULGARITY  AND  AFFECTATION. 

Few  subjects  are  more  nearly  allied  than 
these  two — vulgarity  and  affectation.  It  may 
be  said  of  them  truly  that  "thin  partitions  do 
their  bounds  divide."  There  cannot  be  a  surer 
proof  of  a  low  origin  or  of  an  innate  meanness 
of  disposition,  than  to  be  always  talking  and 
thinking  of  being  genteel.  One  must  feel  a 
strong  tendency  to  that  which  one  is  always 
trying  to  avoid  whenever  we  pretend,  on  all 
occasions,  a  mighty  contempt  for  anything, 
it  is  a  pretty  clear  sign  that  we  feel  ourselves 
very  nearly  on  a  level  with  it.  Of  the  two 
classes  of  people,  I  hardly  know  which  is  to  be 
regarded  with  most  distaste,  the  vulgar  aping 
the  genteel,  or  the  genteel  constantly  sneering 
at  and  endeavouring  to  distinguish  themselves 
from  the  vulgar.  These  two  sets  of  persons 
are  always  thinking  of  one  another;  the  lower 
of  the  higher  with  envy,  the  more  fortunate  of 
their  less  happy  neighbours  with  contempt. 
They  are  habitually  placed  in  opposition  to 
each  other;  jostle  in  their  pretensions  at  every 
turn;  and  the  same  objects  and  train  of  thought 
(only  reversed  by  the  relative  situation  of  either 
party)  occupy  their  whole  time  and  attention. 
The  one  are  straining  every  nerve,  and  out- 
raging common-sense,  to  be  thought  genteel ; 
the  others  have  no  other  object  or  idea  in  their 
heads  than  not  to  be  thought  vulgar.  This 
is  but  poor  spite;  a  very  pitiful  style  of  am- 
bition. To  be  merely  not  that  which  one 
heartily  despises,  is  a  very  humble  claim  to 
superiority:  to  despise  what  one  really  is,  is 
still  worse. 

Gentility  is  only  a  more  select  and  artificial 
kind  of  vulgarity.  It  cannot  exist  but  by  a 
sort  of  borrowed  distinction.  It  plumes  itself 
up  and  revels  in  the  homely  pretensions  of  the 
mass  of  mankind.  It  judges  of  the  worth  of 
everything  by  name,  fashion,  opinion;  and 
hence,  from  the  conscious  absence  of  real 
qualities  or  sincere  satisfaction  in  itself,  it 


VULGARITY  AND  AFFECTATION. 


builds  its  supercilious  and  fantastic  conceit  on 
the  wretchedness  and  wants  of  others.  Violent 
antipathies  are  always  suspicious,  and  betray 
a  secret  affinity.  The  difference  between  the 
"Great  Vulgar  and  the  Small"  is  mostly  in 
outward  circumstances.  The  coxcomb  criticizes 
the  dress  of  the  clown,  as  the  pedant  cavils  at 
the  bad  grammar  of  the  illiterate,  or  the  prude  is 
shocked  at  thebackslidingsof  her  frail  acquaint- 
ance. Those  who  have  the  fewest  resources 
in  themselves,  naturally  seek  the  food  of  their 
self-love  elsewhere.  The  most  ignorant  people 
find  most  to  laugh  at  in  strangers :  scandal  and 
satire  prevail  most  in  country-places;  and  a 
propensity  to  ridicule  every  the  slightest  or 
most  palpable  deviation  from  what  we  happen 
to  approve,  ceases  with  the  progress  of  common- 
sense  and  decency.1  True  worth  does  not 
exult  in  the  faults  and  deficiencies  of  others ; 
as  true  refinement  turns  away  from  grossness 
and  deformity,  instead  of  being  tempted  to  in- 
dulge in  an  unmanly  triumph  over  it.  Raphael 
would  not  faint  away  at  the  daubing  of  a  sign- 
post, nor  Homer  hold  his  head  the  higher  for 
being  in  the  company  of  a  Grub  Street  bard. 
Real  power,  real  excellence,  does  not  seek  for 
a  foil  in  inferiority ;  nor  fear  contamination 
from  coming  in  contact  with  that  which  is 
coarse  and  homely.  It  reposes  on  itself,  and 
is  equally  free  from  spleen  and  affectation. 
But  the  spirit  of  gentility  is  the  mere  essence 
of  spleen  and  affectation; — of  affected  delight 
in  its  own  would-be  qualifications,  and  of  ineff- 
able disdain  poured  out  upon  the  involuntary 
blunders  or  accidental  disadvantages  of  those 
whom  it  chooses  to  treat  as  its  inferiors. 

Thus  a  fashionable  miss  titters  till  she  is 
ready  to  burst  her  sides  at  the  uncouth  shape 
of  a  bonnet,  or  the  abrupt  drop  of  a  courtesy 
(such  as  Jeanie  Deans  would  make)  in  a  country- 
girl  who  comes  to  be  hired  by  her  mamma  as 
a  servant : — yet  to  show  how  little  foundation 
there  is  for  this  hysterical  expression  of  her 
extreme  good  opinion  of  herself  and  contempt 

1  "If  a  European,  when  he  has  ctit  off  his  beard  and 
put  false  hair  on  his  head,  or  bound  up  his  own  natural 
hair  in  regular  hard  knots,  as  unlike  nature  as  he  can 
possibly  make  it;  and  after  having  rendered  them  im- 
movable by  the  help  of  the  fat  of  hogs,  has  covered  the 
whole  with  flour,  laid  on  by  a  machine  with  the  utmost 
regularity;  if  when  thus  attired  he  issues  forth,  and 
meets  a  Cherokee  Indian,  who  has  bestowed  as  much 
time  at  his  toilet,  and  laid  on  with  equal  care  and  atten- 
tion his  yellow  and  red  ochre  on  particular  parts  of  his 
forehead  or  cheeks,  as  he  judges  most  becoming;  who- 
ever of  these  two  despises  the  other  for  this  attention 
to  the  fashion  of  hU  country,  whichever  first  feels  him- 
self provoked  to  laugh,  is  the  bnrharian." — Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds'  Discourses^  vol.  i.  p.  231-32. 


for  the  untutored  rustic,  she  would  herself  the 
next  day  be  delighted  with  the  very  same 
shaped  bonnet  if  brought  her  by  a  French 
milliner  and  told  it  was  all  the  fashion,  and  in 
a  week's  time  will  become  quite  familiar  with 
the  maid,  and  chatter  with  her  (upon  equal 
terms)  about  caps  and  ribbons  and  lace  by  the 
hour  together.  There  is  no  difference  between 
them  but  that  of  situation  in  the  kitchen  or  in 
the  parlour:  let  circumstances  bring  them 
together,  and  they  fit  like  hand  and  glove.  It 
is  like  mistress,  like  maid.  Their  talk,  their 
thoughts,  their  dreams,  their  likings  and  dis- 
likes, are  the  same.  The  mistress'  head  runs 
continually  on  dress  and  finery,  so  does  the 
maid's :  the  young  lady  longs  to  ride  in  a  coach 
and  six,  so  does  the  maid  if  she  could:  miss 
forms  a  beau-ideal  of  a  lover  with  black  eyes 
and  rosy  cheeks,  which  does  not  differ  from 
that  of  her  attendant :  both  like  a  smart  man, 
the  one  the  footman  and  the  other  his  master, 
for  the  same  reason :  both  like  handsome  fur- 
niture and  fine  houses:  both  apply  the  terms 
shocking  and  disagreeabl*  to  the  same  things 
and  persons:  both  have  a  great  notion  of  balls, 
plays,  treats,  song-books  and  love-tales:  both 
like  a  wedding  or  a  christening,  and  both 
would  give  their  little  fingers  to  see  a  corona- 
tion, with  this  difference,  that  the  one  has  a 
chance  of  getting  a  seat  at  it,  and  the  other  is 
dying  with  envy  that  she  has  not. 

Indeed,  this  last  is  a  ceremony  that  delights 
equally  the  greatest  monarch  and  the  meanest 
of  his  subjects — the  vilest  of  the  rabble.  Yet 
this  which  is  the  height  of  gentility  and  the 
consummation  of  external  distinction  and 
splendour,  is,  I  should  say,  a  vulgar  ceremony. 
For  what  degree  of  refinement,  of  capacity,  of 
virtue  is  required  in  the  individual  who  is  so 
distinguished,  or  is  necessary  to  his  enjoying 
this  idle  and  imposing  parade  of  his  person? 
Is  he  delighted  with  the  state-coach  and  gilded 
panels?  So  is  the  poorest  wretch  that  gazes 
at  it.  Is  he  struck  with  the  spirit,  the  beauty 
and  symmetry  of  the  eight  cream-coloured 
horses?  There  is  not  one  of  the  immense  mul- 
titude, who  flock  to  see  the  sight  from  town  or 
country,  St.  Giles's  or  Whitechapel,  young  or 
old,  rich  or  poor,  gentle  or  simple,  who  does 
not  agree  to  admire  the  same  object.  Is  he 
delighted  with  the  yeomen  of  the  guard,  the 
military  escort,  the  groups  of  ladies,  the  badges 
of  sovereign  power,  the  kingly  crown,  the 
marshal's  truncheon  and  the  judge's  robe,  the 
array  that  precedes  and  follows  him,  the 
crowded  streets,  the  windows  hung  with  eager 
looks?  So  are  the  mob,  for  they  "have  eyes 
and  see  them!"  There  is  no  one  faculty  of 


222 


VULGARITY  AND  AFFECTATION. 


mind  or  body,  natural  or  acquired,  essential  to 
the  principal  figure  in  this  procession  more 
than  is  common  to  the  meanest  and  most 
despised  attendant  on  it.  A  wax-work  figure 
would  answer  the  same  purpose:  a  lord-mayor 
of  London  has  as  much  tinsel  to  be  proud  of. 
I  would  rather  have  a  king  do  something  that 
no  one  else  has  the  power  or  magnanimity  to 
do,  or  say  something  that  no  one  else  has  the 
wisdom  to  say,  or  look  more  handsome,  more 
thoughtful,  or  benign  than  any  one  else  in  his 
dominions.  But  I  see  nothing  to  raise  one's 
idea  of  him  in  his  being  made  a  show  of:  jf 
the  pageant  would  do  as  well  without  the  man, 
the  man  would  do  as  well  without  the  pageant! 
Kings  have  been  declared  to  be  "lovers  of  low 
company:"  and  this  maxim,  besides  the  reason 
sometimes  assigned  for  it,  viz.,  that  they  meet 
with  less  opposition  to  their  wills  from  such 
persons,  will  I  suspect  be  found  to  turn  at  last 
on  the  consideration  I  am  here  stating,  that 
they  also  meet  with  more  sympathy  in  their 
tastes.  The  most  ignorant  and  thoughtless 
have  the  greatest  admiration  of  the  baubles, 
the  outward  symbols  of  pomp  and  power,  the 
sound  and  show,  which  are  the  habitual  delight 
and  mighty  prerogative  of  kings.  The  stupid- 
est slave  worships  the  gaudiest  tyrant.  The 
same  gross  motives  appeal  to  the  same  gross 
capacities,  flatter  the  pride  of  the  superior  and 
excite  the  servility  of  the  dependant:  whereas 
a  higher  reach  of  moral  and  intellectual  refine- 
ment might  seek  in  vain  for  higher  proofs  of 
internal  worth  and  inherent  majesty  in  the 
object  of  its  idolatry,  and  not  finding  the 
divinity  lodged  within,  the  unreasonable  expec- 
tation raised  would  probably  end  in  mortifica- 
tion on  both  sides! — There  is  little  to  distinguish 
a  king  from  his  subjects  but  the  rabble's  shout 
— if  he  loses  that  and  is  reduced  to  the  forlorn 
hope  of  gaining  the  suffrages  of  the  wise  and 
good,  he  is  of  all  men  the  most  miserable. — 
But  enough  of  this. 

The  essence  of  vulgarity,  I  imagine,  consists 
in  taking  manners,  actions,  words,  opinions  on 
trust  from  others,  without  examining  one's  own 
feelings  or  weighing  the  merits  of  the  case. 
It  is  coarseness  or  shallowness  of  taste  arising 
from  want  of  individual  refinement,  together 
with  the  confidence  and  presumption  inspired 
by  example  and  numbers.  It  may  be  defined 
to  be  a  prostitution  of  the  mind  or  body  to  ape 
the  more  or  less  obvious  defects  of  others, 
because  by  so  doing  we  shall  secure  the  suff- 
rages of  those  we  associate  with.  To  affect  a 
gesture,  an  opinion,  a  phrase,  because  it  is  the 
rage  with  a  large  number  of  persons,  or  to  hold 
it  in  abhorrence  because  another  set  of  persons 


very  little,  if  at  all,  better  informed,  cry  it 
down  to  distinguish  them/selves  from  the  former, 
is  in  either  case  equal  vulgarity  and  absurdity. 
— A  thing  is  not  vulgar  merely  because  it  is 
common.  'Tis  common  to  breathe,  to  see,  to 
feel,  to  live.  Nothing  is  vulgar  that  is  natu- 
ral, spontaneous,  unavoidable.  Crossness  is 
not  vulgarity,  ignorance  is  not  vulgarity,  awk- 
wardness is  not  vulgarity :  but  all  these  become 
vulgar  when  they  are  affected  and  shown  off 
on  the  authority  of  others,  or  to  fall  in  with 
the  fashion  or  the  company  we  keep.  Caliban 
is  coarse  enough,  but  surely  he  is  not  vulgar. 
We  might  as  well  spurn  the  clod  under  our 
feet,  and  call  it  vulgar.  Cobbett  is  coarse 
enough,  but  he  is  not  vulgar.  He  does  not 
belong  to  the  herd.  Nothing  real,  nothing 
original  can  be  vulgar:  but  I  should  think  an 
imitator  of  Cobbett  a  vulgar  man.  Emery's 
Yorkshireman  is  vulgar,  because  he  is  a  York- 
shireman.  It  is  the  cant  and  gibberish,  the 
cunning  and  low  life  of  a  particular  district; 
it  has  "a  stamp  exclusive  and  provincial." 
He  might  "gabble  most  brutishly"  and  yet 
not  fall  under  the  letter  of  the  definition:  but 
"his  speech  bewrayeth  him,"  his  dialect  (like 
the  jargon  of  a  Bond  Street  lounger)  is  the 
damning  circumstance.  If  he  were  a  mere 
blockhead,  it  would  not  signify :  but  he  thinks 
himself  a  knowing  hand,  according  to  the 
notions  and  practices  of  those  with  whom  he 
was  brought  up,  and  which  he  thinks  the  go 
every  where.  In  a  word,  this  character  is  not 
the  offspring  of  untutored  nature  but  of  bad 
habits;  it  is  made  up  of  ignorance  and  conceit. 
It  has  a  mixture  of  slang  in  it.  All  slang 
phrases  are  for  the  same  reason  vulgar;  but 
there  is  nothing  vulgar  in-the  common  English 
idiom.  Simplicity  is  not  vulgarity;  but  the 
looking  to  affectation  of  any  sort  for  distinction 
is.  A  cockney  is  a  vulgar  character,  whose 
imagination  cannot  wander  beyond  the  suburbs 
of  the  metropolis:  so  is  a  fellow  who  is  always 
thinking  of  the  High  Street,  Edinburgh.  We 
want  a  name  for  this  last  character.  An 
opinion  is  vulgar  that  is  stewed  in  the  rank 
breath  of  the  rabble :  nor  is  it  a  bit  purer  or 
more  refined  for  having  passed  through  the 
well-cleansed  teeth  of  a  whole  court.  The 
inherent  vulgarity  is  in  having  no  other  feeling 
on  any  subject  than  the  crude,  blind,  headlong, 
gregarious  notion  acquired  by  sympathy  with 
the  mixed  multitude  or  with  a  fastidious 
minority,  who  are  just  as  insensible  to  the 
real  truth  and  as  indifferent  to  everything  but 
their  own  frivolous  and  vexatious  pretensions. 
The  upper  are  not  wiser  than  the  lover  orders, 
because  they  resolve  to  differ  from  them.  The 


VULGARITY  AND  AFFECTATION. 


223 


fashionable  have  the  advantage  of  the  unfashion- 
able in  nothing  but  the  fashion.  The  true 
vulgar  are  the  servum  penis  imitatorum — the 
herd  of  pretenders  to  what  they  do  not  feel  and 
to  what  is  not  natural  to  them,  whether  in 
high  or  low  life.  To  belong  to  any  class,  to 
move  in  any  rank  or  sphere  of  life,  is  not  a 
very  exclusive  distinction  or  test  of  refinement. 
Kefinement  will  in  all  classes  be  the  exception, 
not  the  rule ;  and  the  exception  may  fall  out 
in  one  class  as  well  as  another.  A  king  is  but 
an  hereditary  title.  A  nobleman  is  only  one 
of  the  Hou.se  of  Peers.  To  be  a  knight  or 
alderman  is  confessedly  a  vulgar  thing.  The 
king  the  other  day  made  Sir  Walter  Scott  a 
baronet,  but  not  all  the  power  of  the  three 
estates  could  make  another  author  of  Waverley. 
Princes,  heroes  are  often  common-place  people: 
Hamlet  was  not  a  vulgar  character,  neither 
was  Don  Quixote. 

There  is  a  well-dressed  and  an  ill-dressed 
mob,  both  which  I  hate.  Odl  profanum 
vulijus,  et  arceo.  The  vapid  affectation  of  the 
one  is  to  me  even  more  intolerable  than  the 
gross  insolence  and  brutality  of  the  other.  If 
a  set  of  low-lived  fellows  are  noisy,  rude,  and 
boisterous  to  show  their  disregard  of  the  com- 
pany, a  set  of  fashionable  coxcombs  are,  to  a 
nauseous  degree,  finical  and  effeminate  to  show 
their  thorough  breeding.  The  one  are  governed 
by  their  feelings,  however  coarse  and  misguided, 
which  is  something:  the  others  consult  only 
appearances,  which  are  nothing,  either  as  a 
test  of  happiness  or  virtue.  Hogarth  in  his 
prints  has  trimmed  the  balance  of  pretension 
between  the  downright  blackguard  and  the 
soi-disant  fine  gentleman  unanswerably.  It 
does  not  appear  in  his  moral  demonstrations 
(whatever  it  may  do  in,  the  genteel  letter-writing 
of  Lord  Chesterfield,  or  the  chivalrous  rhap- 
sodies of  Burke),  that  vice  by  losing  all  its 
grossness  loses  half  its  evil.  It  becomes  more 
contemptible,  not  less  disgusting.  What  is 
there  in  common,  for  instance,  between  his 
beaux  and  belles,  his  rakes  and  his  coquets, 
and  the  men  and  women,  the  true  heroic  and 
ideal  characters  in  Raphael?  But  his  people 
of  fashion  and  quality  are  just  upon  a  par  with 
the  low,  the  selfish,  the  unideat  characters  in 
the  contrasted  view  of  human  life,  and  are 
often  the  very  same  characters,  only  changing 
places.  If  the  lower  ranks  are  actuated  by 
envy  and  uncharitableness  towards  the  upper, 
the  latter  have  scarcely  any  feelings  but  of 
pride,  contempt,  and  aversion  to  the  lower.  If 
the  poor  would  pull  down  the  rich  to  get  at 
their  good  things,  the  rich  would  tread  down 
the  poor  as  in  a  vine-press,  and  squeeze  the 


last  shilling  out  of  their  pockets  and  the  last 
drop  of  blood  out  of  their  veins.  If  the  head- 
strong self-will  and  unruly  turbulence  of  a 
common  ale-house  are  shocking,  what  shall  we 
say  to  the  studied  insincerity,  the  insipid  want 
of  common-sense,  the  callous  insensibility  of 
the  drawing-room  and  boudoir?  I  would 
rather  see  the  feelings  of  our  common  nature 
(for  they  are  the  same  at  bottom)  expressed  in 
the  most  naked  and  unqualified  way,  than  see 
every  feeling  of  our  nature  suppressed,  stifled, 
hermetically  sealed  under  the  smooth,  cold, 
glittering  varnish  of  pretended  refinement  and 
conventional  politeness.  The  one  may  be  cor- 
rected by  being  better  informed ;  the  other  is 
incorrigible,  wilful,  heartless  depravity.  I 
cannot  describe  the  contempt  and  disgust  I 
have  felt  at  the  tone  of  what  would  be  thought 
good  company,  when  I  have  witnessed  the 
sleek,  smiling,  glossy,  gratuitous  assumption 
of  superiority  to  eve.ry  feeling  of  humanity, 
honesty,  or  principle,  as  a  part  of  the  etiquette, 
the  mental  and  moral  costume  of  the  table,  and 
every  profession  of  toleration  or  favour  for  the 
lower  orders,  that  is,  for  the  great  mass  of  our 
fellow-creatures,  treated  as  an  indecorum  and 
breach  of  the  harmony  of  well-regulated  society. 
In  short,  I  prefer  a  bear-garden  to  the  adder's 
den.  Or  to  put  this  case  in  its  extremest  point 
of  view,  I  have  more  patience  with  men  in  a 
rude  state  of  nature  outraging  the  human  form, 
than  I  have  with  apes  "making  mops  and 
mows"  at  the  extravagances  they  have  first 
provoked.  I  can  endure  the  brutality  (as  it  is 
termed)  of  mobs  better  than  the  inhumanity  of 
courts.  The  violence  of  the  one  rages  like  a 
fire;  the  insidious  policy  of  the  other  strikes 
like  a  pestilence,  and  is  more  fatal  and  inevit- 
able. The  slow  poison  of  despotism  is  worse 
than  the  convulsive  struggles  of  anarchy.  "Of 
all  evils,"  says  Hume,  "anarchy  is  the  shortest 
lived."  The  one  may  "break  out  like  a  wild 
overthrow;"  but  the  other  from  its  secret, 
sacred  stand,  operates  unseen,  and  undermines 
the  happiness  of  kingdoms  for  ages,  lurks  in 
the  hollow  cheek  and  stares  you  in  the  face  in 
the  ghastly  eye  of  want,  and  agony,  and  woe. 
It  is  dreadful  to  hear  the  noise  and  uproar  of 
an  infuriated  multitude  stung  by  the  sense  of 
wrong,  and  maddened  by  sympathy :  it  is  more 
appalling  to  think  of  the  smile  answered  by 
other  gracious  smiles,  of  the  whisper  echoed 
by  other  assenting  whispers,  which  doom  them 
first  to  despair  and  then  to  destruction.  Popu- 
lar fury  finds  its  counterpart  in  courtly  servility. 
If  every  outrage  is  to  be  apprehended  from  the 
one,  every  iniquity  is  deliberately  sanctioned 
by  the  other,  without  regard  to  justice  or 


224 


THE   SUMMER  MORNING. 


decency.  If  there  are  watchwords  for  the 
rabble,  have  not  the  polite  and  fashionable 
their  hackneyed  phrases,  their  fulsome  un- 
meaning jargon  as  well?  Both  arc  to  me 
anathema ! 

HAZLITT. 


THE  JESTER  CONDEMNED  TO 
DEATH. 


One  of  the  kings  of  Scanderoon, 

A  royal  jester 
Had  in  his  train,  a  gross  buffoon, 

Who  used  to  pester 
The  court  with  tricks  inopportune, 
Venting  on  the  highest  folks  his 
Scurvy  pleasantries  aiid  hoaxes. 

It  needs  some  sense  to  play  the  fool, 
Which  wholesome  rule 
Occurr'd  not  to  our  jackanapes, 

Who  consequently  found  his  freaks 
Lead  to  innumerable  scrapes, 

And  quite  as  many  kicks  and  tweaks, 
Which  only  seem'd  to  make  him  faster 
Try  the  patience  of  his  master. 


Some  sin,  at  last,  beyond  all  measure 
Incurr'd  the  desperate  displeasure 

Of  his  serene  and  raging  highness; 
Whether  he  twitch'd  his  most  revered 
And  sacred  baard, 

Or  had  intruded  on  the  shyness 
Of  the  seraglio,  or  let  fly 
An  epigram  at  royalty, 
None  knows  ;—  his  sin  was  an  occult  one  ; 
But  records  tell  us  that  the  sultan, 
Meaning  to  terrify  the  knave, 

Exclairn'd—  "  'Tis  time  to  stop  that  breath; 
Thy  doom  is  seal'd,  presumptuous  slave  ! 

Thou  stand'st  condemn'd  to  certain  death. 
Silence,  base  rebel!  —  no  replying!  — 

But  such  is  my  indulgence  still 

Out  of  my  own  free  grace  and  will 
I  leave  to  thee  the  mode  of  dying." 


"Thy  royal  will  be  done—  'tis  just," 
Replied  the  wretch,  and  kiss'd  the  dust  ; 

"Since,  my  last  moments  to  assuage, 
Your  majesty's  humane  decree 
Ha«  deign'd  to  leave  the  choice  to  me, 

I'll  die,  so  please  you,  of  old  age  !" 

HORACE  SMITH. 


THE  SUMMER  MORNING. 


[John  Clare,  born  in  Helpstone,  near  Peterborough, 
Northamptonshire,  13th  July,  1793;  died  20th  May, 
1864.  He  was  the  son  of  a  farm-labourer,  and  when  a 
mere  child  was  sent  to  work  in  the  fields.  Despite 
many  privations  he  managed  to  educate  himself,  and 
in  1819  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  secure  a  publisher 
for  his  first  work,  foemi  of  Rural  Life.  The  Quarterly 
Review,  which  had  used  Keats  so  harshly  only  a  little 
time  before,  spoke  of  Clare  in  the  highest  terms  of 
praise.  The  rustic  poet  was  invited  to  London :  for  a 
season  he  was  the  lion  of  the  town,  and  a  subscription 
was  raised  which  provided  him  with  an  income  of  about 
£45  a  year.  About  fifteen  years  afterwards  he  became 
insane;  for  some  time  his  wife  nobly  struggled  to  man- 
age him  at  home ;  but  at  last  he  had  to  be  conveyed  to 
the  Northampton  County  Asylum,  where  the  remainder 
of  his  life  was  passed.  Previous  to  that  calamity  he 
had  added  to  his  first  book,  The  Village  Minstrel,  TM 
S/tejJie.-d't  Calendar,  1S27;  and  the  Rural  Muse,  lt>35. 
His  widow  died  in  the  spring  of  1871.] 


The  cocks  have  now  the  morn  foretold, 

The  sun  again  begins  to  peep, 
The  shepherd  whistling  to  his  fold, 

Unpens  and  frees  the  captive  sheep. 
O'er  pathless  plains  at  early  hours 

The  sleepy  rustic  gloomy  goes ; 
The  dews,  brush'd  off  from  grass  and  flowers, 

Bemoistenirig,  sop  his  hardened  shoes. 

While  every  leaf  that  forms  a  shade, 

And  every  floweret's  silken  top, 
And  every  shivering  bent  and  blade, 

Stoops,  bowing  with  a  diamond  top. 
But  soon  shall  fly  their  diamond  drops, 

The  red  round  sun  advances  higher, 
And  stretching  o'er  the  mountain  tops 

Is  gilding  sweet  the  village  spire. 

'Tis  sweet  to  meet  the  morning  breeze, 

Or  list  the  gurgling  of  the  brook  ; 
Or,  stretched  beneath  the  shade  of  trees, 

Peruse  and  pause  on  nature's  book, 
When  nature  every  sweet  prepares 

To  entertain  our  wish'd  delay, — 
The  images  which  morning  wears, 

The  wakening  charms  of  early  day. 

Now  let  me  tread  the  meadow  paths 

While  glittering  dew  the  ground  illumes, 
As  sprinkled  o'er  the  withering  swaths, 

Their  moisture  shrinks  in  sweet  perfumes; 
And  hear  the  beetle  sound  his  horn, 

And  hear  the  skylark  whistling  nigh. 
Sprung  from  his  bed  of  tufted  corn, 

A  hailing  minstrel  of  the  sky. 


THE  HORN-BOOK. 


225 


THE  HORN-BOOK. 

Learned  gentlemen,  who  drive  the  trade  of 
authorship,  will  undoubtedly  be  surprised  to 
see  a  common  weaver  busy  himself  in  their 
matters.  But  without  paying  any  attention 
to  them  I  shall  begin,  gaily  and  cheerfully, 
the  history  of  my  life.  One  of  the  first  things 
I  remember  is,  that  I  was  seized,  when  about 
seven  years  old,  with  a  sore  disease,  which  I 
afterwards  leai-ned  was  the  small-pox.  It 
marked  my  visage  very  deeply,  and  left  behind 
the  seeds  of  a  disorder  which  cost  me  and 
other  people  much  trouble  to  cure.  My  head 
was  rendered  so  weak  that  I  fell  asleep  when 
anybody  attempted  to  talk  to  me  of  books  and 
learning.  Heading  was  a  sore  trouble  to  me: 
and  without  carrying  my  modesty  too  far,  I 
may  say,  that  at  my  twelfth  year  I  still  found 
it  necessary  to  spell  a  few  words.  I  will  not 
raise  suspicions  of  my  fitness  for  authorship  by 
referring  to  the  period  when  my  letters  first 
became  legible.  For  the  rest,  however,  I  am 
healthy  as  a  roach,  and  enjoy  a  happiness  that 
does  not  need  to  be  increased,  but  only  con- 
tinued. People  even  assure  me  that  the  marks 
of  the  small-pox  do  not  distort  my  features, 
but  only  serve  to  give  me  a  sounder  appearance 
at  some  little  distance.  I  regard  this,  how- 
ever, as  good-natured  flattery,  and  am  con- 
vinced that  a  smooth  red  face  would  add  to 
my  beauty.  On  the  last  page  of  my  horn-book 
stood  a  red  cock,  which  I  could  not  look  at 
without  reverencing,  notwithstanding,  as  a 
work  of  art,  it  was  one  of  the  rudest  produc- 
tions of  wood-engraving.  If  I  brought  from 
school  a  testimony  of  good  behaviour  during 
the  day,  I  was  sure  to  find,  on  the  following 
morning,  a  small  piece  of  money  on  the  cock, 
which  my  mother  told  me  was  a  gift  from  him 
to  reward  my  good  conduct  and  encourage  me 
to  persevere.  Such  friendly  means  could  not 
fail.  I  opposed  with  all  my  might  when  any 
of  my  mischievous  schoolfellows  sought  to  en- 
tice me  away;  and  continued  to  spell  with  such 
perseverance,  that  the  veins  of  my  head  some- 
times swelled.  I  became  by  this  means  the 
favourite  of  my  teacher,  Mr.  Ezekiel  Quartz. 
Some  quarrelsome  envious  fellows  named  me 
the  Walking  Horn-book;  but  I  did  not  mind 
this,  for  I  enjoyed,  among  the  orderly  and 
well-behaved,  the  reputation  of  being  the  best 
boy  in  the  village.  With  the  presents  I  ob- 
tained so  honourably  from  the  red  cock,  I 
always  ran  straight  to  the  nearest  shop  and 
bought  a  new,  and  sometimes  warm,  cake  of 

VOL.  j, 


gingerbread,  which  I  usually  shared  with  Lina, 
who  generally  took  care  to  wait  for  me  at  the 
garden  gate  when  she  saw  me  returning.  She 
was  the  only  child  of  our  neighbour,  a  poor 
widow,  who  earned  her  daily  bread  by  running 
on  errands,  and  was  never  off  her  feet  from 
morning  till  night.  While  she  was  tramping 
from  village  to  village,  Lina  sat  at  the  spinning- 
wheel,  and  laboured  as  constantly  as  I  did  at 
my  book,  though  without  being  so  well  re- 
warded. She  was  at  that  time,  as  she  still  is, 
the  ornament  of  the  village.  Her  good  nature, 
and  the  dimple  on  her  chin,  pleased  everybody. 
On  my  return  from  the  pastry-cook's,  such  a 
friendly  smile  spread  over  her  whole  face  that 
I  was  sometimes  obliged  forcibly  to  turn  away 
my  eyes,  in  order  not  to  give  the  cake  unbroken 
into  her  hands.  "Godfred,"  said  she,  as  we 
sat  near  one  another  devouring  our  gingerbread, 
' '  when  we  are  bigger  we  will  be  married,  and 
then  we  will  live  as  if  we  were  in  heaven — 
nothing  but  gingerbread  and  seed-cake ! "  This 
pleased  me,  and  I  resolved  to  keep  friends  with 
the  red  cock;  and  thought  to  myself  that  with 
time  would  come  the  means  of  fulfilling  our 
wishes. 

In  my  thirteenth  year  I  was  taken  from 
school  and  placed  apprentice  to  a  weaver,  who 
was  a  relation  and  friend,  and  who  promised 
to  remember  my  weak  state  of  health  in  ap- 
pointing me  my  task.  As  I  was  to  leave  my 
mother's  house  I  thought  of  nothing  so  much 
as  how  to  give  Lina  something  in  place  of  the 
gingerbread  she  would  no  longer  receive.  A 
red  cock,  like  the  one  in  my  horn-book,  might 
be  as  good  a  friend  to  her  as  to  me.  I  copied 
the  picture,  therefore,  carefully  on  another 
piece  of  paper,  by  holding  it  up  to  the  window, 
and  afterwards  coloured  it  red.  When  the 
work  was  ended  I  could  scarcely  wonder  enough 
at  the  resemblance.  Towards  evening  I  went 
to  the  garden  gate  and  threw  a  handful  of  sand 
against  Lina's  window  to  inform  her  of  my 
presence.  I  already  enjoyed,  in  imagination, 
her  astonishment  at  my  dexterity,  and  her  joy 
at  my  kindness.  When  she  appeared,  as  I 
told  her  of  my  intended  departure,  and  that 
I  had  brought  her  a  present  of  not  a  little 
value,  she  looked  eagerly  towards  it ;  but  when 
she  saw  the  picture  I  was  mortally  disappointed : 
instead  of  the  praise  I  expected  she  shook  her 
head  and  turned  up  her  nose,  almost  as  if  she 
despised  me  and  my  work.  She  scarcely  looked 
at  it ;  and  wrapping  it  up  again  in  paper,  ex- 
pressed plainly  enough  that  she  would  rather 
have  had  a  substantial  cake  of  gingerbread 
than  all  the  painted  cocks  in  the  world.  I 
was  vexed  at  this  contempt  for  my  labours; 
15 


223 


THE  HORN-BOOK. 


measured  the  ungrateful  one  from  head  to  foot, 
;tnd  in  a  moment  resolved  I  would  tear  myself 
from  her  and  never  again  have  anything  to  do  | 
with  her.      "Your  servant,  Miss  Lina,"  said  I 
I    aloud,   and   proudly  turning  on  my  heel,  j 
stalked  lordly  and  hastily  home,  without  pay-  | 
ing  any  attention  to  her  calling  after  me. 

My  cousin's  house,  where  I  was  now  to  dwell, 
was  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  village,  which 
would  not,  however,  have  hindered  me  from  , 
keeping  company  with  Lina,  if  I  had  not  re-  , 
solved  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  the 
earthly-minded  thing,  who  had  rather  tickle 
her  palate  than  her  eyes,  and  had  no  taste  for 
the  fine  and  noble  arts.     She,  however,  sought,  j 
by  all  her  little  means,  to  get  hold  of  me  when  | 
I  went  to  drink  coffee  with  my  mother  on  Sun-  j 
days  and  feast-days.    But  I  persisted  in  avoid- 
ing her,  and  in  cherishing  the  ill-temper  she 
had  awakened  by  the  unkind  reception  of  the 
picture.     The  most  which  I  did  was  to  show  , 
myself  at  the  window  and  pretend  not  to  ob-  • 
serve  her.     At   length,   when  she  found  she 
was  only  thrashing  empty  straw,  she  left  off 
looking  after  me.     Only  wait,  thought  I;  you 
shall  yet  repent  of  the  scornful  manner  you  ' 
treated  me;  only  let  me  become  a  journeyman 
weaver. 

The  years  of  apprenticeship  passed  away,  j 
and  the  day  at  last  arrived  on  which  I  was  to  ; 
be  set  free,  and  admitted  into  the  journeyman's 
guild — allowed  to  smoke  tobacco  in  every  com- 
pany, and  to  walk  with  my  cane  wherever  I  ; 
pleaaed.  As  I  sat  at  breakfast  with  my  mother, 
and  talked  over  the  necessary  arrangements 
for  the  coming  festivities,  the  father -journey- 
man entered,  took  his  place  at  my  side  in  a  ' 
friendly  way,  and  helped  me  to  despatch  the 
coffee.  Formerly  he  hardly  deigned  to  look  at 
me,  now  he  began  to  talk  freely  and  jovially, 
which  pleased  and  exalted  me  prodigiously.  I 
was  quite  in  raptures,  however,  as  my  mother 
brought  forth  some  spirits,  and  he,  clapping 
me  on  the  shoulder,  said,  "What  think  you, 
brother  Fred,  shall  we  drink  to  our  lasting 
friendship?"'  The  words  ran  through  me  like 
ilre  My  mother  seemed  to  utter  a  prayer  for 
the  continuance  of  our  fellowship  as  we  stood 
up.  and  entwining  each  an  arm  with  the  other, 
in  this  manner  carried  the  glasses  to  our  mouths 
and  emptied  them. 

Now  was  I  able  to  snap  my  fingers  at  the  ! 
whole  world,  and  only  found  it  necessary  to 
muster  up  all  my  self-command  that  my  sense 
of  acknowledged  worth  might  not  be  blown  up 
into  folly.  The  reader  will  undoubtedly  like 
to  know  how  I  was  clothed  on  this,  for  me, 
important  day.  My  coat  was  of  dark  blue, 


hanging  down  to  my  ankles,  and  lined  with 
bright  red;  my  waistcoat  was  of  plush,  and  on 
it  might  be  seen,  very  naturally  drawn,  the 
whole  planets  running  their  course.  My  boote 
were  of  the  best  calf's  skin,  with  yellow  topa. 
By  my  especial  desire  my  mother  had  bound 
ttiree  handkerchiefs  round  my  neck,  so  that  the 
outward  one  reached  my  under  lip.  A  long 
tail,  tied  with  new  shining  ribbon,  hung  down 
my  back,  and  the  fore-part  of  my  head  was 
covered  with  curls,  which,  after  being  pressed 
down  by  the  hat,  rose  again  into  pretty  ringlets 
when  it  was  removed.  In  truth,  for  eight 
days  before,  my  hair  was  pressed  up  in  papers, 
and  not  taken  down  till  the  important  moment 
in  which  I  was  to  show  myself.  In  my  left 
hand  I  held  a  large  bunch  of  flowers,  in  my 
right  a  silver-headed  cane  inherited  from  my 
grandfather,  and  from  both  my  pockets  hung 
the  corners  of  two  fine  flower-worked  pocket- 
handkerchiefs.  In  this  stately  dress  I  began, 
about  mid-day,  to  make  the  course  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  to  invite,  according  to  custom,  the 
maidens  to  the  dance  which  I  was  to  give  that 
evening  at  the  sign  of  the  Crow.  I  passed  by 
Lina's  door,  however,  several  times  without 
allowing  my  inclinations  to  conquer  the  reso- 
lution I  had  laid  down ;  and  if  Lina  was  not 
entirely  blind  she  must  have  known  by  my 
conduct  that  I  had  drank  to  our  lasting  friend- 
ship with  the  father  of  the  journeymen,  and 
had  banished  all  recollection  of  our  ginger- 
bread-eating years  from  my  heart.  In  the 
evening,  however,  as  all  the  beauties  of  the 
place  swam  past  me  in  the  waltzing  circle,  the 
true  queen  of  the  feast,  precisely  the  contemned 
Lina,  appeared  to  be  wanting,  as  the  only  per- 
son worthy  to  stand  at  my  side.  In  vain  did 
I  frisk  and  whirl  with  the  stiff  daughter  of  the 
cartwright  in  order  to  banish  the  unpleasant 
thoughts ;  the  image  of  Lina  preserved  its 
place  and  darkened  every  other  joy.  Streams 
of  perspiration  and  powder,  from  exercise  and 
anxiety,  flowed  down  my  face  and  spoiled  my 
neck-handkerchiefs.  Sighing  and  panting,  my 
partner  sank  on  the  nearest  stool  and  gasped 
for  breath.  I  could  hold  out  no  longer  in  the 
dust  and  vapour,  but  drank  copiously  of  beer, 
stuffed  my  pipe,  and  went  to  the  door  to  cool 
myself.  A  secret  impulse  I  could  not  explain 
led  me  farther  and  farther,  and  blowing  away 
the  smoke  as  I  thumped  along,  I  found  myself, 
before  I  knew  where  I  was,  under  Lina's  win- 
dow. She  sat  solitary  and  quiet  in  the  little 
room,  dimly  lighted  by  a  lamp,  and  turned 
her  wheel,  drawing  out  her  threads  fine  and 
firm,  for  she  span  as  well  as  any  girl  of  the 
village.  The  music  and  the  shouts  of  th« 


THE  HORN-BOOK. 


227 


joyous  dancers  were  plainly  heard,  but  she  sat 
and  worked,  busied  alone  with  her  own  thoughts. 
Sorrowful  and  melancholy  reflections  appeared 
in  her  countenance,  but  she  paid  no  attention 
to  the  distant  music,  and  there  was  nothing 
about  her  which  could  lead  me  to  suppose  she 
was  vexed  at  being  excluded  from  tne  dance. 
She  had  already  put  on  her  night-cap,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  confess  to  myself  that  she  was 
very  pretty,  and  that  not  one  of  the  gaily 
dressed  ladies  at  the  dance  could  compare  with 
her.  I  possessed,  however,  firmness  enough 
not  to  betray  my  presence,  or  to  give  in  any 
way  expression  to  my  feelings  ;  yet  I  was  much 
disposed  to  do  it,  and  resolved,  on  my  way 
back  to  the  dance,  to  receive  her  again  into 
favour.  Nor  was  this  resolution  altered  by  the 
jokes  of  my  companions  at  my  melancholy 
appearance,  but  remained  even  till  daylight, 
when,  with  a  cloudy  head,  I  returned  home  to 
give  myself  up,  after  so  much  exertion  of  body 
and  mind,  to  the  sweet  empire  of  sleep. 

It  was  noon,  and  the  dinner  ready,  before 
I  returned  to  my  senses  on  the  following  day, 
rejoiced  to  find  that  the  honours  and  praises 
I  had  harvested  the  night  before  were  no  idle 
dreams.  My  mother  had  prepared  me  one  of 
my  favourite  dishes,  and,  after  making  up  the 
loss  of  my  morning's  drink  by  a  hearty  meal, 
I  turned  my  thoughts  to  the  immediate  execu- 
tion of  my  last  night's  plan.  My  pipe  was 
lighted,  and  I  took  myself  into  the  garden,  in 
hopes  that  Lina,  informed  of  my  presence, 
would  find  something  to  do  there,  and  give  me 
an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her.  And,  in 
truth,  the  only  son  of  my  mother  found  him- 
self not  deceived.  Lina  was  in  the  garden, 
and  I  had  nothing  further  to  do  to  begin  the 
conversation  than  to  bid  her  good-day,  which 
I  did,  and  she  answered  in  as  friendly  a  way 
as  if  she  had  been  invited  to  the  dance  and 
the  merriest  person  there.  This  vexed  me, 
but  I  endeavoured,  like  a  man,  to  keep  down 
the  unpleasant  feeling,  and,  approaching  the 
garden  railing  as  near  as  possible,  said,  in  con- 
fidential kind  tone,  "  I  wish,  dear  Lina,  yon 
had  been  with  us  yesterday  evening ;  we  shouted 
and  huzzaed  like  victorious  heroes,  and  danced 
and  sprung  like  young  does,  and  were  all  as 
happy  as  kings."  "  I  do  not  know,"  said  she, 
with  a  sort  of  contemptuous  smile,  "  what 
business  I  had  there,  and  I  trouble  myself  as 
little  about  it  to-day  as  yesterday."  "You 
may  say  what  you  please,"  said  I,  "but  you 
cannot  deny  that  the  manner  in  which  I  have 
hitherto  treated  you  has  not  been  indifferent 
to  you.  You  would  have  gladly  been  at  the 
dance  yesterday.  Come,  everything  shall  be 


forgotten  and  forgiven.  Here  is  my  hand — 
we  will  be  again  good  friends,"  "  Is  it  worth 
the  trouble,"  said  she,  with  a  sneering  loud 
laugh.  "No,  Mr.  Godfred,  people  must  not 
be  so  hasty  in  the  choice  of  their  friends ;  and 
nobody  cares  about  puffed-up  fools — they  are 
passed  without  any  notice."  So  saying,  she 
seized  her  watering-pot,  and  before  I  could 
muster  up  my  senses  to  -answer  such  an  unex- 
pected impertinence,  she  had  disappeared. 
"Zounds!"  said  I,  calling  after  her,  ''that 
was  clearly,  very  clearly  said."  I  stood  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  as  if  somebody  had  beat 
me,  stuck  my  fists  in  my  side,  and  gnashed  my 
teeth,  as  I  endeavoured  to  find  out  some  way 
of  revenging  my  wounded  honour.  She  had 
called  me  a  fool ;  not  directly,  indeed,  but  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  mean  no  other  person  but 
me ;  and  to  affront  me  ten  times  more  than  if 
she  had  called  me  so  downright.  The  more  I 
thought  on  the  matter  the  more  I  became 
doubtful  and  desponding.  Shall  I  revenge 
myself  immediately  and  give  grist  to  all  the 
scandal-mills  of  the  place?  or  shall  I  bear  in 
patience  an  insult  that  the  burgomaster  him- 
self would  condemn  me  for  submitting  to? 
The  father-journeyman  occurred  to  me.  "  He," 
said  I  to  myself,  "  may  give  me  the  best  ad- 
vice how  to  behave  myself,  for  he  has  already 
had,  by  virtue  of  his  office,  many  such  cases 
to  decide.  I  must  explain  the  unpleasant 
matter  to  him,  and  be  guided  by  his  opinion." 
It  was  Saturday,  and  the  whole  weavers' 
guild  had  a  »ort  of  a  blue  day  in  consequence 
of  the  festivities  of  yesterday,  and  I  knew  that 
1  should  not  fail  to  find  my  friend  at  the  Crow, 
where  he  spent  every  hour  he  was  not  at  the 
loom.  He  seemed  ill-tempered,  for  he  sat  still 
and  gloomy  in  a  corner  of  the  tap-room,  and 
it  was  not  till  he  had  heard  me  command  the 
landlord  to  bring  me  a  tankard  of  the  right 
stuff  that  his  contracted  eyebrows  expanded 
to  their  usual  cheerfulness.  I  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  take  my  place  near  him,  offered  him 
a  glass,  and  told  him,  in  a  few  words,  of  what 
had  just  happened  to  me.  "  Brother,"  said 
he,  after  he  had  let  me  tell  my  tale  fully, 
"  from  all  you  have  said  to  me,  it  is  clear 
enough  that,  in  spite  of  what  the  maiden  said, 
and  you  have  done,  she  is  yet  deeply  and  des- 
perately in  love  with  you."  As  he  said  this 
he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  glasses,  which  were 
drained  dry;  and  I,  understanding  him,  gave 
a  sign  to  the  landlord,  and  they  were  again 
soon  filled.  "Brother,"  continued  he,  "the 
maiden  felt  herself  insulted  by  your  neglect; 
and,  indeed,  you  went  too  far  to  slight  her 
before  the  whole  village.  However,  she  i» 


228 


THE  HORN-BOOK. 


chiefly  offended  because  she  yet  likes  you;  you 
are,  as  it  were,  stuck  on  to  her  heart.  This, 
therefore,  is  my  advice.  You  must  bear  the 
shaaie  she  has  put  on  you  with  patience,  instead 
of  making  it  the  talk  of  everybody.  You  must 
take  the  title  as  a  piece  of  maiden's  wit,  such 
as  is  to  be  had  every  day,  and  pay  her  for  it 
with  a  dozen  good  kisses  on  the  scandalous 
mouth  on  the  first  opportunity,  and  afterwards 
act  as  it  suits  your  heart  and  understanding. 
I  will  give  you  a  certificate  that  the  fool  shall 
remain  betwixt  us — it  shall  descend  with  us 
into  the  grave."  The  advice  did  not  appear 
.so  bad,  after  some  reflection,  as  at  first.  I 
thanked  the  brotherly  friend  with  my  right 
hand,  made  him  again  promise  me  secrecy, 
and  assured  him  I  would  direct  my  future  con- 
duct to  Lina  according  to  what  he  said. 

Unhappily,  however,  my  promise  was  easier 
given  than  kept ;  and  the  four  weeks  which 
intervened  between  my  liberation  and  begin- 
ning my  travels  passed  away  without  my  being 
able  rightly  to  understand  on  what  terms  I 
stood  with  Lina.  If  she  saw  me  before  the 
door  or  in  the  garden  she  behaved  herself  well 
and  politely,  but  showed  no  sign  of  uncontrol- 
lable love.  This  made  me  melancholy  and 
low-spirited,  particularly  as  I  observed  that, 
'.mable  to  make  proper  resistance,  I  was  daily 
more  in  love  with  Lina.  Good  counsel  would 
now  have  been  valuable  to  me,  and  all  the 
wisdom  of  the  father-journeyman  was  of  no 
avail.  The  evil  was  always  increasing.  Eat- 
ing and  drinking  no  longer  pleased  me.  My 
pipe  remained  untouched  the  whole  day ;  and 
my  mother,  who  saw  in  my  conduct  my  sorrow 
at  parting  from  home,  shook  her  head  with 
melancholy  foreboding.  Lina  was  our  nearest 
neighbour,  and  it  was  impossible  she  should 
not  know  of  my  intention  to  wander  through 
the  wide  world ;  yet  she  did  not  lose  the  smallest 
part  of  her  usual  cheerfulness.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  remarked,  when  she  was  in  her  garden 
bleaching  her  yarn,  she  trulled  and  hummed 
such  gay  airs,  that  every  note  was  like  a  dagger 
to  my  heart.  Her  mirth  made  me  shy  and 
reserved,  and  wrecked  every  attempt  I  made 
to  speak,  and  perhaps  be  reconciled  with  her. 
I  cursed  my  former  stupid  conduct ;  whenever 
I  saw  her  I  trembled,  and  had  not  the  courage 
to  approach  and  declare  to  her  my  secret 
thoughts. 

On  the  day  before  my  expected  departure, 
my  mother  had  collected  some  friends  to  keep 
her  and  me  cheerful.  In  the  evening  I  left 
the  table,  went  and  rapped  at  Lina's  door, 
determined  to  have  an  explanation,  and  be 
«ertain  what  I  had  to  hope  or  to  fear  for  the 


future.  My  trouble  was  vain ;  I  could  make 
nobody  hear,  the  house  appeared  deserted;  my 
thumps  were  echoed  as  from  a  vault,  and  ah 
the  inhabitants  of  the  spot,  where  I  had  hoped 
to  find  comfort,  appeared  dead  and  gone.  No 
light  was  in  her  chamber,  everything  remained 
in  quiet  darkness,  and  the  door  was  firm  against 
all  my  attempts  to  enter.  Afterwards  I  heard 
that  Lina  had  been  called  away  before  noon  to 
her  mother,  who  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill 
in  one  of  the  neighbouring  villages,  and  that 
she  was  not  likely  to  return  for  some  days. 
Every  spark  of  hope  was  now  extinguished. 
It  was  decided  that  I  was  quite  indifferent  to 
her,  and  I  ought  not  to  think  of  regaining  the 
favour  I  had  so  foolishly  lost. 

If  the  father-journeyman  could  now  have 
given  his  opinion,  he  would  have  advised  me 
to  resign  myself  to  my  fate,  to  banish  the 
maiden  from  my  thoughts,  and  throw  out  my 
hook  for  a  new  prize.  He,  hoM-ever,  had  seen 
fifty  springs,  and  I  was  in  my  eighteenth  year. 
What  was  I  to  do?  It  was  scarcely  possible  to 
postpone  my  departure  for  a  few  days  and  trust 
to  Lina's  return,  even  if  I  were  disposed  to 
bear  with  the  taunts  of  my  comrades  as  a 
mother's  spoiled  child,  for  I  had  taken  a  solemn 
farewell  of  all  my  friends  and  relations.  Sor- 
rowful, therefore,  I  packed  up  my  knapsack, 
stowed  away  carefully  the  hoarded  and  the 
collected  money  my  mother  had  provided  me, 
and,  after  a  sleepless  night,  started  at  day- 
break, accompanied  by  some  guild  companions 
to  the  next  village,  and  thus  wandered  in  a 
very  melancholy  mood  from  my  native  place 
into  the  wide  world. 

More  than  half  a  year  did  I  traverse  back- 
wards and  forwards  the  holy  Roman  empire 
without  finding  it  necessary  to  seek  employ- 
ment. The  money  my  mother  had  given  me 
was  sufficient  to  keep  me,  and  the  picture  of 
Lina  which  I  carried  in  my  heart  prevented 
the  time  from  being  wearisome.  At  noon  I 
readily  sought  the  cool  shade  by  the  side  of 
some  stream,  to  look  over  the  images  of  former 
times  that  were  stored  up  in  my  memory.  For 
whole  hours  I  fixed  my  gaze  on  the  red  cock, 
which  I  had  preserved  as  my  best  friend,  and 
carefully  placed  in  my  letter-case  on  leaving 
home.  The  sight  of  my  gingerbread  buyer 
recalled,  as  if  present,  all  the  pleasures  he,  and 
all  the  sorrows  his  copy,  had  procured  me.  In 
living  clearness  the  days  stood  before  me  in 
which  Lina  placed  rm  at  her  side,  called  me 
her  little  Fred,  and  talked  of  our  future  mar- 
riage. I  cursed  the  passionate  haste  with  which 
I  separated  from  her  on  the  unhappy  evening, 
the  proud  overlooking  by  which  I  made  her 


THE  HORN-BOOK. 


223 


understand  my  displeasure  for  several  years, 
aiftl  the  rude  conduct  by  which  I  at  last  had 
put  tlie  crown  on  my  insult.  I  was  penetrated 
with  shame  and  repentance  as  I  recalled  all 
this;  and  not  seldom  I  began  to  punish  myself, 
by  pinching  my  own  nose,  when  I  reflected 
my  own  misconduct  had  deprived  me  of  the 
maiden's  favour;  and  at  times  the  blood  would 
rise  in  my  head  till  I  became  almost  mad. 
Always,  I  confess  it,  have  I  been  a  desperate 
man. 

As  autumn,  however,  approached,  and  my 
money  was  nearly  at  an  end,  my  wandering 
unoccupied  life  was  necessarily  put  a  stop  to. 
Terrified  to  find  myself  without  a  home  for  the 
winter,  and  at  the  prospect  of  being  obliged  to 
beg  my  bread  travelling  on  the  highways,  I 
resolved  to  suppress  my  love  for  freedom,  and 
to  obtain  some  occupation  by  which  I  could  be 
secure  against  want  through  the  winter.  With 
this  intention  I  turned  my  steps  towards  a 
large  town,  in  which  I  hoped  to  find  employ- 
ment. The  steeples  were  already  visible  from 
a  height  when  I  put  my  hand  by  accident  in 
my  pocket,  and,  to  my  great  grief,  missed 
my  letter-case,  which  clearly  appeared  to  have 
descended  through  a  hole  gradually  formed. 
Though  I  could  readily  have  resigned  all  the 
other  papers  that  it  contained,  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  give  up  the  cock,  which  in 
former  times  had  procured  me  so  many  enjoy- 
ments. I  returned  without  delay  on  my  steps, 
and  sought,  by  every  means,  to  recover  my 
lost  treasure.  In  vain  did  I  go  back  ten  miles, 
poking  and  creeping  on  all  sides — it  was  lost 
for  ever. 

As  night  came  on  and  I  was  exhausted,  I 
was  obliged  to  seek  a  place  of  repose.  Soon 
afterwards  I  reached  a  solitary  public-house, 
where  I  hoped  to  find  what  I  wanted,  with 
something  to  eat  for  money  and  fair  words. 
The  room  was  full  of  carriers,  surrounded  with 
thick  clouds  of  smoke,  who  were  terrifying  one 
another  with  numerous  tales  of  ghosts  and 
murder.  I  took  my  place  in  a  corner,  got 
something  to  eat,  and  could  not  but  express 
now  and  then,  by  a  smile,  my  surprise  at  the 
credulity  of  these  rude  people.  At  the  end  of 
half  an  hour  a  tall  elderly  man,  of  a  sallow 
complexion,  came  in,  whom  I  took  for  a  rich 
dealer  in  cattle,  as  he  threw  off  his  greatcoat, 
and  discovered  his  girdle  well  loaded  with 
money.  He  called,  in  a  commanding  voice, 
for  something  to  eat,  and  was  immediately 
served ;  while  a  stuffed  arm-chair,  drawn  out 
of  the  neighbouring  chamber,  showed  that  the 
people  were  disposed  to  respect  him.  As  he 
•at  himself  at  his  ease,  he  said,  showing  my 


letter-case,  "  I  have  found  on  the  road  a  packet, 
which  may  perhaps  be  of  value;  and  now  ior  <i 
look  at  the  contents."  "Worthy  sir,"  I  ex- 
claimed, rising  up  and  approaching  with  beg- 
ging gestures,  "  the  letter-case  in  your  hands 
belongs  to  me:  I  lost  it,  and  I  will  immedi- 
ately tell  you  what  it  contains.  In  the  middle 
there  is  a  red  cock ;  on  all  the  other  papers  and 
parts  of  the  book  you  will  find  the  name  of 
Lina  written  in  all  sorts  of  letters."  "Good, 
good,"  said  the  man,  interrupting  me,  after 
he  had  thrown  a  hasty  glance  over  the  letter- 
case;  "here,  take  it;  God  forbid  I  should  ap- 
propriate another  person's  property  to  myself. " 
Nobody  could  now  be  happier  than  I.  I 
thanked  the  finder  a  thousand  times,  and  went 
out  into  the  garden  to  give  myself  up  undis- 
turbed to  the  pleasure  of  again  po'ssessing  my 
treasure.  It  was  a  cool  clear  autumn  evening; 
the  blood-red  moon  was  just  rising;  and  no- 
thing but  the  falling  leaves  now  and  then  broke, 
with  a  light  rustling,  the  general  stillness.  I 
had  hardly  seated  myself  in  a  thick  arbour  at 
the  end  of  the  garden,  to  give  myself  up  to 
the  fancies  which  drove  thickly  through  me, 
when  I  heard,  on  the  outside  of  the  planking, 
the  tread  of  a  foot,  and  immediately  after  a 
conversation  between  two  persons,  of  which, 
though  they  spoke  low  and  cautiously,  I  lost 
not  a  syllable.  '•  As  I  say,  Matthew,"  said 
one,  "we  have  no  occasion  to  hurry  ourselves; 
Steinacker  is  in  the  house  refreshing  him- 
self. He  does  not  sleep  there,  and  I  know  for 
certain  he  means  to  be  in  the  city  to-morrow  as 
early  as  possible.  His  girdle  is  well  filled,  and 
his  only  weapon  is  a  stick,  which  will  break 
in  pieces  at  the  first  stroke.  It  will  be  easy 
to  manage  him,  therefore,  and  even  to  get  rid 
of  him  altogether,  should  it  be  necessary." 
"He  does  not  want  for  courage,"  was  the 
answer:  "he  will  defend  himself  like  a  devil, 
you  may  be  sure.  We  must  give  him  a  squeaker 
quickly  or  all  will  go  wrong,  I  tell  you.  The 
surest  place  will  be  the  hollow  oak  by  the  cross- 
road. We  will  hide  ourselves  behind  the  bush, 
and  as  he  rides  carelessly  past  we  will  dart  on 
him  like  lightning,  give  him  the  needful,  and 
share  the  ready  betwixt  us — and  with  that 
enough."  These  wretches  went  away  after 
saying  this.  I  moved  cautiously  out  of  my 
hiding-place,  crept  through  a  hole  in  the  garden 
wall,  and  saw  two  broad-shouldered  fellows 
walking  away  over  a  stubble  field  towards  a 
wood,  which  was  most  likely  the  intended 
scene  of  their  future  exploit. 

Overjoyed  to  be  able  to  render  the  finder  of 
the  letter-case  such  an  important  service,  for 
I  did  not  doubt  that  he  was  the  object  of  this 


230 


THE  HORN-BOOK. 


villainy,  I  hastened  back  to  the  house  to  warn 
him  of  the  plot.  It  was  strangely  affecting  to 
see  him  Bitting  with  a  cheerful  countenance, 
quite  free  from  the  slightest  suspicion  of  what 
was  hanging  over  him.  At  the  moment,  in 
fact,  he  was  telling  the  landlord  that  he  in- 
tended soon  to  give  up  his  present  employment, 
and  return,  with  the  property  he  had  acquired 
during  twenty  years'  wandering  about,  to  his 
native  place,  and  there  for  the  future  to  lead 
a  quiet,  steady,  peaceable  life.  As  he  was  rising 
to  depart  I  went  up  to  him,  and,  clapping  him 
on  the  shoulder,  said, "  IsyournameSteinacker, 
sir?"  "  At  your  service, "  said  he;  "but  my 
name  is  no  secret ;"  and  he  appeared  rather 
astonished  at  my  manner  of  addressing  him. 
"  Then  I  can  give  you  a  little  piece  of  infor- 
mation," I  continued,  "which  is  worth  your 
while  to  attend  to,  and  may  astonish  you.  You 
would  be  dead  to-night,  sir,  but  for  the  red 
cock."  With  this  I  explained  to  him  what  I 
had  heard  in  the  garden,  word  for  word.  "  The 
devil!"  said  he,  much  surprised,  and  with 
evident  agitation.  "  Now  I  understand  what 
that  fellow  meant  who  followed  me  the  whole 
day  yesterday.  Quite  right,  I  must  pass  by 
a  hollow  oak  to  go  to  the  city."  "There stood 
a  convent  there  formerly,"  said  the  landlord, 
"and  we  call  the  oak  Margaret's  Tree,  because 
a  nun  of  that  name  still  plays  the  ghost  there. 
The  scoundrels  are  not  stupid  ;  they  could  not 
have  selected  a  better  place,  for  nobody  of  this 
neighbourhood  will  venture  near  the  oak  after 
dark. " 

Preparations  were  immediately  made  to  take 
the  two  vagabonds  and  deliver  them  up  to 
justice.  The  landlord  collected  every  person 
who  was  capable  of  carrying  arms  and  would 
engage  to  assist.  Steinacker  made  the  plan  of 
attack.  I  armed  myself  with  a  hay-fork,  and 
was  placed  in  the  reserve,  that,  in  case  of 
retreat,  I  might,  at  least,  have  the  office  of 
leader.  Everything  succeeded  to  our  wish. 
The  wood  was  surrounded,  and  all  our  parties 
marched  in  to  the  hollow  oak  with  as  little 
noise  as  possible.  The  rogues  were  not  aware 
of  our  approach  till  we  were  so  close  and  so 
superior  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  escape. 
Both  were  pinioned  immediately,  their  weapons 
taken  from  them,  and  both  brought  in  triumph 
to  the  public-house,  where  they  were  so  closely 
secured  till  they  could  be  delivered  up  to  the 
magistrates,  that  I  would  not  have  been,  for 
a  great  deal,  in  their  situation. 

Such  riotous  joy  now  took  place  as  was  pro- 
bably never  before  seen.  Steinacker  felt  him- 
self disposed  to  be  generous,  from  his  wonder 
ful  escape,  and  treated  the  whole  society.  So 


much  was  drunk,  that,  at  length,  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  understand  a  single  word  from  the  noise. 
Steinacker  took  me  aside,  called  me  his  guardian 
angel,  kissed  me  and  hugged  me,  in  the  warmth 
of  his  gratitude,  till  my  bones  clattered,  and 
I  was  obliged  to  escape  from  his  grasp  to  draw 
breath.  In  vain  I  repeated  that  I  had  little 
share  in  saving  him,  and  that  he  owed  his  pre- 
servation entirely  to  the  red  cock.  He  would 
not  listen  to  me,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  I 
could  prevent  him  from  giving  me  the  half 
of  his  money  by  assuring  him  that  he  had 
beforehand  richly  rewarded  me  in  returning 
the  letter-case.  He  was  astonished,  shook  his 
head  in  unbelief,  and  became  curious  to  know 
how  a  thing  so  inconsiderable  in  his  eyes 
should  have  so  great  a  value  in  mine.  The 
whole  conduct  of  the  man,  since  I  first  saw 
him,  had  inspired  me  with  confidence,  and  I 
did  not  hesitate  to  satisfy  his  curiosity  by  re- 
lating the  history  of  the  red  cock,  and  all  the 
circumstances  of  my  attachment  to  Lina,  in 
such  a  copious  manner  as  might  be  expected 
from  this  being  the  first  opportunity  I  had 
had  since  leaving  home  of  pouring  out  my  full 
heart.  He  appeared  less  astonished  at  my 
history  than  at  hearing  the  name  of  my  native 
village  and  the  names  of  our  neighbours.  He 
rose  from  table,  took  a  turn  or  two  in  the  room, 
again  took  his  place  by  my  side,  and  with  ex- 
traordinary gestures  encouraged  me  to  proceed 
in  my  story.  I  expressed  to  him  my  surprise 
at  his  evident  confusion,  and  inquired  what 
circumstances  in  my 'story  had  excited  such 
strong  feelings.  He  shook  his  head  but  spoke 
not,  and  continued  to  listen  to  me,  and  asked 
a  thousand  minute  questions,  while  he  atten- 
tively examined  my  countenance ;  so  that, 
altogether,  his  conduct  affected  me  in  a  very 
strange  and  wonderful  manner. 

In  the  meantime  the  whole  company  had 
made  themselves  drunk  at  his  expense,  and  in 
the  joy  of  his  heart  he  had  also  somewhat 
muddled  his  head.  I  was  the  only  sober  per- 
son amongst  them  all.  Suddenly  one  of  them, 
made  bold  and  quarrelsome  by  liquor,  had  the 
impertinence  to  call  my  courage  in  question, 
and  impudently  to  say,  that,  when  the  attack 
was  made  on  the  two  hedge-thieves,  I  had 
made  a  rapid  side  movement,  had  jumped  over 
a  hedge,  and,  as  pale  as  death,  had  concealed 
myself  in  a  ditch.  At  this  scandalous  (I  may 
boldly  call  it)  lie  the  whole  company  broke  out 
into  such  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter  that 
the  windows  shook.  Even  Steinacker  joined 
in  it,  and  appeared  for  a  moment  to  forget  all 
the  gratitude  his  wonderful  deliverance  had 
before  excited.  I  was  excessively  vexed,  though 


THE    HORN-BOOK. 


231 


I  endeavoured  to  appear  as  if  I  did  not  feel  the 
insult,  and  said  nothing  in  my  own  defence. 
When  the  company,  however,  overpowered  by 
drink,  had  all  sunk  into  sleep,  I  seized  my 
knapsack,  found  my  way  out  through  an  open 
window,  and,  before  a  soul  was  on  the  road, 
set  out  in  the  first  fogs  of  the  morning  to  pur- 
sue my  journey.  My  manner  of  escaping  pre- 
vented any  person  knowing  what  was  become 
of  me ;  and  Steinacker's  efforts  to  find  me,  of 
which  I  afterwards  heard,  were  unavailing, 
because  I  could  procure  no  work  in  the  city  to 
which  he  was  going,  and  was  obliged,  on  the 
following  day,  to  seek  another  home.  I  was 
afterwards  more  fortunate  ;  and  though  sitting 
behind  a  loom  now  appeared  a  monotonous 
miserable  life,  yet  I  was  obliged  to  submit, 
and  happy,  by  this  means,  to  obtain  food.  I 
was  fortunate  in  making  myself  agreeable  by 
the  goodness  of  my  manners  and  my  industry, 
and  I  had  many  occasions  to  know  that  a  man 
becomes  immediately  interesting  to  the  other 
sex  when  his  melancholy  and  solitariness  give 
them  to  understand  that  he  carries  in  his 
bosom  the  unhealing  wounds  of  an  unfortunate 
attachment. 

The  reader  will  scarcely  be  interested  by 
anything  concerning  the  several  masters  whom 
I  served,  nor  by  anything  concerning  the 
masters'  daughters,  who  severally  appeared  to 
cherish  a  soft  and  kind  regard  for  me.  I  shall 
therefore  pass  over  a  period  of  two  years  and 
a  half,  and  again  take  up  my  story,  as  a  letter 
at  this  time  recalled  me  home,  by  the  news 
that  my  mother  was  dangerously  ill. 

It  was  on  a  beautiful  spring  evening,  after 
a  long  journey  of  nearly  three  hundred  miles, 
that  I  approached  my  native  village.  It  would 
be  in  vain  to  attempt  to  describe  my  feelings 
when  I  first  saw  the  aged  pines  on  a  hill  in  the 
clergyman's  garden,  rising  far  and  proudly 
above  the  other  surrounding  trees.  Doubt  and 
anxiety,  curiosity  and  desire,  fear  and  hope, 
followed  one  another  rapidly  through  my 
troubled  mind  ;  my  heart  beat  quick,  and  the 
perspiration  stood  in  great  drops  on  my  fore- 
head as  I  entered  my  mother's  house  at  the 
beginning  of  night.  From  her  sick-bed  she 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  welcome  me ;  over- 
powered by  sorrow  and  grief  I  threw  myself 
on  my  knees  beside  her ;  speechless  sighs  were 
our  only  greeting  after  our  three  years'  separa- 
tion, and  it  was  only  by  tears  that  our  hearts 
were  made  easy.  A  single  glance  at  the  scanti- 
ness of  the  furniture  convinced  me  that  many 
unpleasant  changes  had  taken  place  during 
my  absence,  and  that  my  mother  had  become 
much  poorer  than  when  I  left  home.  Nor  was 


I  long  in  learning  that  she  had  been  reduced 
to  the  greatest  poverty  by  having  been  robbed 
and  by  a  very  long  sickness.  This  news  de- 
stroyed all  my  courage,  and  all  the  hopes  I 
had  nourished  till  this  moment  were  at  onc« 
overthrown.  Nothing  was,  however,  to  be 
gained  by  giving  myself  up  to  the  gloomy- 
despair  that  at  first  seized  me.  Courage  and 
exertion  were  necessary,  for  on  me  now  de- 
pended my  sick  and  affectionate  parent.  Some- 
thing must  be  immediately  done  to  stop  in- 
creasing misery.  I  gave  up  at  once  and  for 
ever  my  plan,  long  nourished  in  secret,  of  gain- 
ing back  Lina's  affections.  It  was  not  pos- 
sible, under  my  circumstances,  to  talk  to  her 
of  love ;  and  I  employed  myself  in  procuring, 
j  by  mortgaging  our  house,  as  much  money  aa 
would  buy  me  the  necessary  materials  for  car- 
rying on  my  trade.  It  was  with  difficulty  I 
gained  my  ends.  The  house  was  old  and  in 
want  of  repairs.  Wind  and  rain  found  a  free 
passage  in  many  places,  and  it  promised,  ere 
long,  to  fall  entirely  in  ruins.  Nobody,  there- 
fore, liked  to  lend  me  money  on  it,  and  it  cost 
me  much  trouble  before  I  could  place  myself 
in  a  situation  to  begin  work.  Even  then  I 
was  in  want  of  employers ;  the  guild  funds 
were  extremely  low,  and  with  a  sorrowful  heart 
did  I  see  our  situation  growing  daily  worse. 
Not  to  make  my  joyless  existence  still  more 
miserable,  I  had  carefully  avoided  any  com- 
munication with  Lina,  and  had  only  saluted 
her  in  passing,  when  I  had  carefully  turned 
away  my  eyes  as  speedily  as  possible.  I  had, 
however,  remarked  that  the  charms  of  youthful 
grace  and  loveliness  were  still  spread  over  her 
in  all  their  former  full  measure.  I  was  sepa- 
rated only  by  a  wall  from  the  most  affectionate 
of  all  the  daughters  of  Eve ;  and  yet  separated, 
by  unconquerable  difficulties,  for  ever.  I 
wandered  about,  when  I  reflected  on  this,  like 
a  miserable  criminal,  and  was  incapable  of 
entertaining  one  pleasant  thought. 

One  evening,  as  I  sat  at  the  window  in  this 
melancholy  mood,  I  heard  the  noise  of  a  car- 
riage, which  stopped  at  our  neighbour's  door, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  feeble  light,  I  saw  Lina's 
mother  descend  and  enter  the  house  in  company 
with  a  man,  and  the  carriage  immediately 
drove  off.  "  Perhaps  Lina's  bridegroom  !"  was 
my  first  thought,  which,  with  anxiety,  weighed 
heavy  on  my  soul.  Nor  could  I  get  rid  of  this 
supposition  by  all  the  arts  of  reason.  To 
obtain  certainty,  or  to  relieve  the  horrid  fear, 
if  possible,  I  quitted  the  house,  and  pryed  into 
Lina's.  The  little  room  into  which  I  looked 
was  well  lighted,  and  formed,  from  the  com- 
fort which  apparently  reigned  there,  a  strong 


•232 


THE   HORN-BOOK. 


contrast  with  our  dwelling.  It  was  not  possible 
this  alteration  could  have  been  effected  by  the 
spinning-wheel ;  and  the  whole  riddle  would 
have  been  inexplicable,  had  not  a  closer  in- 
spection of  the  persons  sitting  at  table  cleared 
it  up.  With  astonishment  I  saw  that  the  man 
who  had  accompanied  Lina's  mother  into  the 
house  was  Steinacker.  He  appeared  quite  at 
home.  Lina  sat  close  by  his  side,  and  had  her 
arm  laid  in  a  most  familiar  manner  on  his 
shoulder.  Her  gestures  were  so  cheerful,  and 
she  appeared  so  perfectly  friendly  with  Stein- 
acker,  that  I  cried  for  vexation.  Immediately 
I  thought  I  had  found  the  clue  to  the  whole 
matter.  On  that  evening,  so  full  of  adven- 
tures, when  Steinacker  had  questioned  me  so 
closely  about  Lina  and  her  mother,  I  had  dis- 
played my  eloquence  at  the  expense  of  my 
discretion ;  and,  in  the  fulness  of  my  heart, 
had  sketched  so  charming  a  picture  of  Lina 
that  he  had  been  tempted  to  visit  her,  had 
found  appearance  justify  my  praises,  and  had 
thought  her  an  admirable  assistant  in  that 
quiet  plan  of  life  he  meant  to  follow.  He  had 
fallen  desperately  in  love  with  her — how  could 
it  be  otherwise? — had  thrown  his  well-stuffed 
purse  on  the  table,  and  everything  was  right. 
These  were  the  thoughts  with  which  I  left  my 
post  of  observation,  and  returned  home  bitterly 
vexed. 

It  might  be  perhaps  some  hours  after  this 
when  Steinacker  entered  our  house.  He  was 
perhaps  astonished  at  the  appearance  I  made, 
sitting  still  and  silent  in  the  corner,  for  it  was 
some  time  before  he  was  able  to  speak.  At 
length  he  began  to  reproach  me  for  my  secret 
flight  from  the  public-house — spoke  of  a  distant 
relationship  between  him  and  Lina's  mother — 
alluded  to  the  service  I  had  rendered  him,  and 
said  he  still  cherished  the  wish  to  show  me  his 
gratitude.  I  repeated  that  I  was  already  re- 
warded, and  assured  him  that  I  was  now,  as 
then,  far  from  wishing  to  make  any  use  of  his 
offer.  He  called  me  obstinate  and  capricious, 
spoke  in  a  dark  sort  of  manner  of  domestic 
comforts,  and  closed  his  tiresome  conversation 
by  making  me  an  offer  of  buying  our  old 
house.  I  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  him  by  refer- 
ring him  for  an  answer  till  to-morrow.  On 
this  he  left  me  and  took  up  his  night's  quarters 
at  our  neighbour's. 

My  mother,  on  my  representation  that  it 
was  impossible  we  could  retain  and  repair  our 
house,  consented  to  part  with  it,  and  the  con- 
tract for  selling  it  to  Steinacker  was  concluded 
without  much  difficulty.  What  he  offered  and 
gave  for  it  was  a  mere  trifle,  but  my  wish  to 
get  far  away  from  Lina  made  me  readily  accept 


it ;  and  after  paying  all  our  debts  a  little  re- 
mained for  a  time  of  greater  need.  We  hired 
a  house  at  the  farther  end  of  the  village,  and 
the  impatience  of  the  new  proprietor  drove  us 
speedily  away  from  the  place  where  we  had 
passed  so  many  years.  We  felt  this  severely, 
but  I  was  doomed  to  be  yet  more  humiliated. 
My  loom  was  scarcely  erected  in  our  new  house 
when  Steinacker  sent  me  a  large  parcel  of  yarn 
to  weave  into  linen  as  quickly  and  as  well  an 
possible.  It  was  the  first  work  I  had  received 
since  I  had  been  admitted  a  master.  Lina's 
hand  might  be  traced  in  the  fineness  and 
equality  of  the  thread,  and  thus  my  first  per- 
formance was  to  form  a  part  of  her  dowry.  In 
a  sorrowful  mood  I  began  the  piece,  and  chose 
rather  to  labour  at  night  when  everything 
about  me  was  still. 

In  the  meantime  I  learned  that  our  former 
house  and  the  neighbouring  one  were  pulled 
down,  and  that  a  new  stone  one  was  building 
in  their  place  with  great  haste.  This  was 
sufficient  reason  for  my  hastening  with  the 
web,  which,  as  I  had  little  else  to  do,  was  soon 
completed.  It  was  sent  home,  and  as  it  was 
extremely  disagreeable  to  me  to  think  of  being 
paid  for  it,  poor  as  I  was,  I  imagined  a  thou- 
sand means  of  rejecting  any  reward  which 
might  be  offered.  My  cares  were,  however,  at 
present  ill-founded.  Steiuacker  said  nothing 
of  payment,  but  expressed  his  satisfaction  at 
the  work,  and  sent  me  another  parcel  of  yarn 
to  be  woven  into  cloth.  In  this  manner  the 
summer  passed  gradually  away,  no  smile  had 
ever  mixed  with  the  melancholy  that  had  now 
become  habitual  to  me.  My  mother,  indeed, 
had  recovered  so  much  as  to  be  at  present  out 
of  danger,  but  this  was  the  only  consolation  I 
enjoyed. 

By  my  retired  manner  of  living  I  can  safely 
say  I  had  no  hand  in  unfairly  spreading  my 
reputation  as  a  clever  weaver,  but  in  truth, 
such  an  account  was  gradually  given  of  me. 
Good  friends  may,  perhaps,  have  spoken  of 
me;  perhaps  Steinacker  himself;  but  certain  it 
is,  that  at  this  time  I  had  more  work  than 
two  persons  could  perform.  The  second  web 
for  him  had  long  been  done  and  he  said  no- 
thing of  payment.  I  could  not  believe  that 
he  had  guessed  my  wishes,  and  though  I  felt 
contented  with  his  silence,  I  was  at  a  loss  to 
explain  it.  At  length  he  appointed  me  to 
come  to  him  at  a  particular  hour  on  a  Sunday 
evening,  requesting  me  at  the  same  time  to 
stay  to  supper  with  him.  I  went  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour,  but  with  the  firm  determination 
of  refusing  all  payment,  and  of  leaving  him  to 
eat  his  supper  alone;  and  now,  for  the  first 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE 


233 


time,  I  saw  the  new  house,  which  I  had  hitherto 
carefully  avoided.  The  owner  received  me  in 
a  cheerful  room  close  to  the  door,  asked  me  to 
sit  at  a  table  covered  with  a  green  cloth,  and 
requested  my  account.  Now  began  our  dis- 
pute. 1  persisted  i  hud  no  account  to  give, 
that  I  was  happy  in  this  way  to  show  my 
gratitude  for  the  money  advanced  on  our  house, 
and  that  I  had  always  resolved  not  to  take 
anything  for  the  linen.  He  said  the  workman 
«v  is  worthy  of  his  hire;  that  he  could  not  hear 
of  such  untimely  generosity ;  that  I  was  an 
obstinate  fellow,  but  that  he  knew  a  way  to 
band  me,  which  he  would  soon  employ,  if  I 
did  not  give  in.  In  the  midst  of  our  dispute 
somebody  rang  at  the  outer  door ;  Steinacker 
opened  it,  and,  by  the  aid  of  the  light  in  the 
room,  I  saw  a  female,  whom  I  believed  to  be 
my  mother.  This  supposition  added  consider- 
ably to  my  confusion,  and,  when  Steinacker 
returned,  as  I  was  again  defending  my  opinion, 
and  constantly  blundering  from  one  thing  to 
another,  I  at  last  said  the  yarn  was  spun  by 
Lina,  and  that  there  was  no  necessity  for  a 
third  person  to  interfere  between  us.  At  this 
moment  Steinacker  clapped  his  hands  and 
laughed  aloud.  To  my  astonishment  a  side- 
door  opened,  and  Lina,  with  her  mother  and 
my  own,  entered.  I  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the 
spot,  felt  as  if  all  my  limbs  were  paralyzed, 
and  stared  at  them  all,  one  after  another,  with- 
out saying  a  word.  Steinacker  put  an  end  to 
this  by  conducting  Lina  to  me,  and  assuring 
me  that  the  elected  of  my  heart  had  always 
been  true  to  me,  and  that,  now  he  had  done 
everything  necessary  to  cancel  an  old  debt, 
nothing  was  wanting  to  complete  our  happi- 
ness, if  the  interference  of  a  third  person  was 
not  declared  to  be  of  no  use  or  value.  But 
who  could  think  this?  It  now  turned  out  that 
Steinacker  was  a  half-brother  of  Lina's  mother, 
and  had  resided  here  a  twelvemonth,  constantly 
occupied  in  carrying  a  project  into  execution 
he  had  formed  on  the  first  evening  of  our 
wonderful  acquaintance.  There  was  no  decep- 
tion; Lina  hung  on  my  arm,  I  could  press  her 
to  my  heart ;  and  the  founder  of  our  fortunes 
wished  us  happiness  and  joy  by  his  smiles. 
"Is  it  possible,"  said  I  to  Lina,  "that  you 
have  constantly  thought  of  our  former  friend- 
ship, though  I  insulted  you  so  rudely?  Can 
you  always  have  loved  me,  when  I  formerly 
treated  you  so  ill?"  "Always, "said  she,  with 
a  glance  that  was  more  convincing  than  her 
words ;  ' '  and  I  have  even  preserved  more  care- 
fully than,  from  circumstances,  you  suppose, 
perhaps,  the  present  which  I  formerly  received 
from  your  hand."  At  these  words  she  drew 


away  the  green  cloth,  and,  with  joyful  sur- 
prise, I  there  saw  the  very  red  cock  which  I 
myself  had  formerly  made  for  her.  He  was 
now  pasted  on  the  middle  of  the  table,  and 
destined  to  be  the  lasting  ornament  of  this 
piece  of  furniture.  A  paper  with  the  magis- 
trate's seal  lay  near  it.  "  Times  and  customs 
change,"  said  Steinacker.  "Formerly  the 
cock  gave  you  pennies  to  satisfy  your  boyish 
appetites;  now  he  gives  you  a  stone-built  house 
to  dwell  in,  and  large  enough  for  you  to  supply 
old  Steinacker  with  a  place  of  repose  for  the 
rest  of  his  days."  "  The  cock,"  said  I,  "had 
no  need  to  give  any  orders  on  this  point." 

Here,  then,  do  I  gaily  and  cheerfully,  as  I 
began,  conclude  my  narration.  I  live  in  a 
well-built,  airy,  roomy  house,  have  been  for 
some  time  united  to  Lina,  rejoice  in  the  daily 
increase  of  my  business,  and  expect  shortly 
that  a  young  Godfred  will  hail  me  with  the 
name  of  father.  In  taking  leave  of  the  well- 
disposed  reader,  I  cannot  do  less  than  entreat 
the  favour  of  his  company  at  the  expected 
cltriiteit'tHj. 

From  the  German  of  PRATZEL. 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE. 

'  0  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee  ; ' 

The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  as  eye  could  see. 

The  blinding  mist  came  down,  and  hid  the  land : 
And  never  home  came  she. 

'  Oh !  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
"Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee.' 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  : 

But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  noroe 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 

CHARLES  KINGSI.EY. 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  COWPER. 


LAURA'S  BOWER, 

THE  CELEBRATED    CANZONE    OF    PETRARCH,    BEGINNING 
"CHIARE,  FRtSCHE,  E  DOLCE  ACQUE." 

Clear,  fresh,  and  dulcet  streams, 

Which  the  fair  shape,  who  seems 

To  me  sole  woman,  haunted  at  noou-tide ; 

Bough,  gently  interknit, 

(I  sigh  to  think  of  it) 

Which  form  d  a  rustic  chair  for  her  sweet  side; 

And  turf,  ami  flow'rs  bright-eyed, 

O'er  which  her  folded  gown 

Flow'd  like  an  angel's  down ; 

And  you,  O  holy  air  and  hush'd, 

Where  first  my  heart  at  her  sweet  glances  gush'd; 

Give  ear,  give  ear,  with  one  consenting, 

To  my  last  words,  my  last  and  my  lamenting. 

If  'tis  my  fate  below, 
And  Heav'u  will  have  it  so, 
That  love  must  close  these  dying  eyes  in  tears, 
May  my  poor  dust  be  laid 
In  middle  of  your  shade, 

While  my  soul,  naked,  mounts  to  its  own  spheres. 
The  thought  would  calm  my  fears, 
When  taking,  out  of  breath, 
The  doubtful  step  of  death; 
For  never  could  my  spirit  find 
A  stiller  port  after  the  stormy  wind : 
Nor  in  more  calm,  abstracted  bourne, 
Slip  from  my  travaill'd  flesh,  and  from  my  bones  out- 
worn. 

Perhaps  some  future  hour, 

To  her  accustom'd  bower, 

Might  come  th'  untamed,  and  yet  the  gentle  she; 

And  where  she  saw  me  first, 

Might  turn  with  eyes  athirst. 

And  kinder  joy  to  look  again  for  me; 

Then,  oh  the  charity  ! 

Seeing  betwixt  the  stones 

The  earth  that  held  my  bones, 

A  sigh  for  vei-y  love  at  last 

Might  ask  of  Heaven  to  pardon  me  the  past; 

And  Heav'n  itself  could  not  s  ly  nay, 

As  wi»h  her  gentle  veil  she  wiped  the  tears  away. 

HOTT  well  I  call  to  mind, 

When  from  those  bowers  the  wind 

Shook  down  upon  her  bosom  flower  on  flower; 

And  there  she  sat,  meek-eyed, 

In  midst  of  all  that  pride, 

Sprinkled  and  blushing  through  an  amorous  shower. 

Some  to  her  hair  paid  dower. 

And  seem'd  to  diess  the  curls, 

<iueeu-like,  with  gold  and  pearls; 


Some,  snowing,  on  her  drapery  stopp'd, 
Some  on  the  earth,  some  on  the  water  dropu'd: 
While  others,  flutt'ring  from  above, 
Seem'd  wheeling  round  in  pomp,  and  saying,  "Her* 
reigns  Love." 

How  often  then  I  said, 

Inward,  and  fill'd  with  dread, 

— ''  Doubtless  this  creature  came  from  Paradise  I* 

For  at  her  look  the  while, 

Her  voice,  and  her  sweet  smile, 

And  heav'nly  air,  truth  parted  from  mine  eyas: 

So  that,  with  long-drawn  sighs, 

I  said,  as  far  from  men, 

•'How  came  I  here,  and  when?" 

I  had  forgotten  ;  and,  alas ! 

Fancied  myself  in  heav'n,  not  where  I  was ; 

And  from  that  time  till  this  I  bear 

Such  love  for  the  green  bower,  I  cannot  rest  elsewhere. 

LEIOH  HUKT. 


EXTRACTS  FROM   THE 
CORRESPONDENCE  OF  COWPER. 

[William  Cowper,  born  in  Berkhampstead.  Hert- 
fordshire, 15th  November  (old  style),  1731  ;  died  Sth 
April,  1800.  He  was  the  sou  of  the  rector  of  Great 
Berkhainpstead.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  entered  a 
solicitor's  office  in  London,  where  he  remained  three 
years.  He  then  took  chambers  in  the  Middle  Temple 
and  studied  for  the  bar.  In  1763  the  influence  of  a 
relative  obtained  for  him  the  appointment  of  Clerk  of 
the  Journals  of  the  House  of  Lords.  Before  this  ap- 
pointment was  confirmed,  however,  he  was  unexpectedly 
required  to  stand  an  examination  at  the  bar  of  the 
House  to  show  his  fitness  for  the  post.  His  anxiety  on 
this  account  so  much  affected  his  over  sensitive  nature 
that  be  became  insane  and  attempted  to  commit  suicide. 
His  friends  removed  him  to  St.  Albau'sand  placed  him 
under  the  care  of  Dr.  Cotton,  where  he  remained  until 
his  recovery  in  1765.  His  insanity  assumed  the  form 
of  religious  despondency;  and  the  malady  unhappily 
returned  to  him  at  three  subsequent  periods.  It  was 
not  until  the  winter  of  1780-1  that  he  pre-ared  his  first 
volume  of  poems,  comprising  Table  Talk,  Jfo/K,  The 
Pnigrtgs  of  Error,  <fcc.,  which  was  published  two  years 
afterwards.  In  1785  appeared  the  TaM-and  Tirocinium, 
the  fomier,  as  is  well  known,  having  been  suggested  to 
the  poet  by  the  widow  of  Sir  Robert  Austen.  Ills 
translation  of  Homer  occupied  him  six  years,  and  was 
published  in  1791.  His  last  composition.  The  Castaway. 
was  written  in  17PO,  during  a  brief  interval  of  relief 
from  the  affliction  which  darkened  the  six  years  pre- 
ceding his  death.] 

TO   THE   REV.    JOHN   NEWTON. 

If  a  Board  of  Inquiry  were  to  be  established, 
at  which  poets  were  to  undergo  an  examina- 
tion respecting  the  motives  that  induced  them 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  COWPER. 


235 


to  publish,  and  I  were  to  be  summoned  to  at- 
tend, that  I  might  give  an  account  of  mine,  I 
think  I  could  truly  say,  what  perhaps  few 
poets  could,  that  though  I  have  no  objection 
to  lucrative  consequences,  if  any  such  should 
follow,  they  are  not  my  aim ;  much  less  is  it 
my  ambition  to  exhibit  myself  to  the  world  as 
a  genius.  What  then,  says  Mr.  President, 
can  possibly  be  your  motive?  I  answer,  with 
a  bow — Amusement.  There  is  nothing  but 
this — no  occupation  within  the  compass  of  my 
small  sphere,  poetry  excepted,  that  can  do 
much  towards  diverting  that  train  of  melan- 
choly thoughts  which,  when  I  am  not  thus 
employed,  are  for  ever  pouring  themselves  in 
upon  me.  And  if  I  did  not  publish  what  I 
write,  I  could  not  interest  myself  sufficiently 
in  my  own  success  to  make  an  amusement  of 
it. 

Whoever  means  to  take  my  phiz  will  find 
himself  sorely  perplexed  in  seeking  for  a  fit 
occasion.  That  I  shall  not  give  him  one,  is 
certain ;  and  if  he  steals  one,  he  must  be  as 
cunning  and  quick-sighted  a  thief  as  Autolycus 
himself.  His  best  course  will  be  to  draw  a 
face,  and  call  it  mine,  at  a  venture.  They 
who  have  not  seen  me  these  twenty  years  will 
say,  It  may  possibly  be  a  striking  likeness 
now,  though  it  bears  no  resemblance  to  what 
he  was:  time  makes  great  alterations.  They 
who  know  me  better  will  say  perhaps,  Though 
it  is  not  perfectly  the  thing,  yet  there  is  some- 
what of  the  cast  of  his  countenance.  If  the 
nose  was  a  little  longer,  and  the  chin  a  little 
shorter,  the  eyes  a  little  smaller,  and  the  fore- 
head a  little  more  protuberant,  it  would  be 
just  the  man.  And  thus,  without  seeing  me 
at  all,  the  artist  may  represent  me  to  the 
public  eye  with  as  much  exactness  as  yours 
has  bestowed  upon  you,  though,  I  suppose,  the 
original  was  full  in  his  view  when  he  made  the 
attempt. 

I  have  often  promised  myself  a  laugh  with 
you  about  your  pipe,  but  have  always  forgotten 
it  when  I  have  been  writing,  and  at  present  I 
am  not  much  in  a  laughing  humour.  You  will 
observe,  however,  for  your  comfort  and  the 
honour  of  that  same  pipe,  that  it  hardly  falls 
within  the  line  of  my  censure.  You  never 
fumigate  the  ladies,  or  force  them  out  of  com- 
pany ;  nor  do  you  use  it  as  an  incentive  to 
hard  drinking.  Your  friends,  indeed,  have 
reason  to  complain  that  it  frequently  deprives 
them  of  the  pleasure  of  your  own  conversation 
while  it  leads  you  either  into  your  study  or 
your  garden  ;  but  in  all  other  respects  it  is  as 


innocent  a  pipe  as  can  be.  Smoke  away,  there- 
fore ;  and  remember  that  if  one  poet  has  con- 
demned the  practice,  a  better  than  he,  the 
witty  and  elegant  Hawkins  Browne,  has  been 
warm  in  the  praise  of  it. 

TO    THE    SAME. 

Nov.  30,  1783. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — 1  have  neither  long  visits 
to  pay  nor  to  receive,  nor  ladies  to  spend  hours 
in  telling  me  that  which  might  be  told  in  five 
minutes,  yet  often  find  myself  obliged  to  be  an 
economist  of  time,  and  to  make  the  most  of  a 
short  opportunity.  Let  our  station  be  as  re- 
tired as  it  may,  there  is  no  want  of  playthings 
and  avocations,  nor  much  need  to  seek  them, 
in  this  world  of  ours.  Business,  or  what  pre- 
sents itself  to  us  under  that  imposing  character, 
will  find  us  out,  even  in  the  stillest  retreat, 
and  plead  its  importance,  however  trivial  in 
reality,  as  a  just  demand  upon  our  attention. 
It  is  wonderful  how  by  means  of  such  real  or 
seeming  necessities  my  time  is  stolen  away. 
I  have  just  time  to  observe  that  time  is  short, 
and  by  the  time  I  have  made  the  observation, 
time  is  gone.  I  have  wondered  in  former  days 
at  the  patience  of  the  antediluvian  world;  that 
they  could  endure  a  life  almost  millenary,  with 
so  little  variety  as  seems  to  have  fallen  to  their 
share.  It  is  probable  that  they  had  much  fewer 
employments  than  we.  Their  affairs  lay  in  a 
narrower  compass ;  their  libraries  were  indif- 
ferently furnished ;  philosophical  researches 
were  carried  on  with  much  less  industry  and 
acuteness  of  penetration  ;  and  fiddles,  perhaps, 
were  not  even  invented.  How  then  could 
seven  or  eight  hundred  years  of  life  be  support- 
able? I  have  asked  this  question  formerly, 
and  been  at  a  loss  to  resolve  it;  but  I  think  I 
can  answer  it  now.  I  will  suppose  myself  born 
a  thousand  years  before  Noah  was  born  or 
thought  of.  I  rise  with  the  sun;  I  worship;  I 
prepare  my  breakfast;  I  swallow  a  bucket  of 
goafs-milk,  and  a  dozen  good  sizable  cakes. 
I  fasten  a  new  string  to  my  bow,  and  my 
youngest  boy,  a  lad  of  about  thirty  years  of 
age,  having  played  with  my  arrows  till  he  has 
stripped  off  all  the  feathers,  I  find  myself 
obliged  to  repair  them.  The  morning  is  thus 
spent  in  preparing  for  the  chase,  and  it  is 
become  necessary  that  I  should  dine.  I  dig 
up  my  roots;  I  wash  them;  I  boil  them;  I  find 
them  not  done  enough ;  I  boil  them  again ;  my 
wife  is  angry;  we  dispute;  we  settle  the  point; 
but  in  the  meantime  the  fire  goes  out,  and 
must  be  kindled  again.  All  this  is  very  amus- 
ing. I  hunt:  I  bring  home  the  prey;  with  the 
skin  of  it  I  mend  an  old  coat,  or  I  make  a  new 


236 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  COWPER. 


one.  By  this  time  the  day  is  far  spent;  I  feel 
myself  fatigued  and  retire  to  rest.  Thus  what 
with  tilling  the  ground,  and  eating  the  fruit 
of  it,  hunting,  and  walking,  and  running,  and 
mending  old  clothes,  and  sleeping  and  rising 
again,  I  can  suppose  an  inhabitant  of  the 
primeval  world  so  much  occupied,  as  to  sigh 
over  the  shortness  of  life,  and  to  find  at  the 
end  of  many  centuries,  that  they  had  all  slipped 
through  his  fingers,  and  were  passed  away  like 
a  shadow.  What  wonder  then  that  I,  who 
live  in  a  day  of  so  much  greater  refinement, 
when  there  is  so  much  more  to  be  wanted,  and 
wished,  and  to  be  enjoyed,  should  feel  myself 
now  and  then  pinched  in  point  of  opportunity, 
and  at  some  loss  for  leisure  to  fill  four  sides  of 
a  sheet  like  this?  Thus,  however,  it  is,  and 
if  the  ancient  gentlemen  to  whom  I  have  re- 
ferred, and  their  complaints  of  the  dispropor- 
tion of  time  to  the  occasions  they  had  for  it,  will 
not  serve  me  as  an  excuse,  I  must  even  plead 
guilty,  and  confess  that  I  am  often  in  haste 
when  I  have  no  good  reason  for  being  so. 


TO   THE    SAME. 

March  19,  1785. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — You  will  wonder,  no 
doubt,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  write  upon  a 
card-table ;  and  will  be  still  more  surprised 
when  I  add,  that  we  breakfast,  dine,  sup  upon 
a  card-table.  In  short,  it  serves  all  purposes, 
except  the  only  one  for  which  it  was  originally 
designed.  The  solution  of  this  mystery  shall 
follow,  lest  it  should  run  in  your  head  at  a 
wrong  time,  and  should  puzzle  you,  perhaps, 
when  you  are  on  the  point  of  ascending  your 
pulpit :  for  I  have  heard  you  say,  that  at  such 
seasons  your  mind  is  often  troubled  with  im- 
pertinent intrusions.  The  round  table,  which 
we  formerly  had  in  use,  was  unequal  to  the 
pressure  of  my  superincumbent  breast  and 
elbows.  When  I  wrote  upon  it,  it  creaked  and 
tilted,  and,  by  a  variety  of  inconvenient  tricks, 
disturbed  the  process.  The  fly-table  was  too 
slight  and  too  small;  the  square  dining- table, 
too  heavy  and  too  large,  occupying,  when  its 
leaves  were  spread,  almost  the  whole  parlour; 
and  the  sideboard-table,  having  its  station  at 
too  great  a  distance  from  the  fire,  and  not 
being  easily  shifted  out  of  its  place  and  into 
it  again,  by  reason  of  its  size,  was  equally  un- 
fit for  my  purpose.  The  card-table,  therefore, 
which  had  for  sixteen  years  been  banished  as 
mere  lumber, — the  card-table,  which  is  covered 
with  green  baize,  and  is  therefore  preferable 
to  any  other  that  has  a  slippery  surface, — the 
oard-table,  that  stands  firm  and  never  totters, 


— is  advanced  to  the  honour  of  assisting  me 
upon  my  scribbling  occasions;  and,  because  we 
choose  to  avoid  the  trouble  of  making  frequent 
changes  in  the  position  of  our  household  fur- 
niture, proves  equally  serviceable  upon  all 
others.  It  has  cost  us  now  and  then  the  downfal 
of  a  glass:  for,  when  covered  with  a  table- 
cloth, the  fish-ponds  are  not  easily  discerned; 
and  not  being  seen,  are  sometimes  as  little 
thought  of.  But  having  numerous  good  quali- 
ties which  abundantly  compensate  that  single 
inconvenience,  we  spill  upon  it  our  coffee,  our 
wine,  and  our  ale,  without  murmuring,  and 
resolve  that  it  shall  be  our  table  still,  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  others.  Not  to  be  tedious,  I 
will  add  but  one  more  circumstance  upon  the 
subject,  and  that  only  because  it  will  impress 
upon  you,  as  much  as  anything  that  I  have  said, 
a  sense  of  the  value  we  set  upon  its  escritorial 
capacity. — Parched  and  penetrated  on  one  side 
by  the  heat  of  the  fire,  it  has  opened  into  a 
large  fissure,  which  pervades  not  the  moulding 
of  it  only,  but  the  very  substance  of  the  plank. 
At  the  mouth  of  this  aperture,  a  sharp  splinter 
presents  itself,  which,  as  sure  as  it  comes  in 
contact  with  a  gown  or  an  apron,  tears  it.  It 
happens,  unfortunately,  to  be  on  that  side  of 
this  excellent  and  never-to-be-forgotten  table 
which  Mrs.  Unwin  sweeps  with  her  apparel, 
almost  as  often  as  she  rises  from  her  chair. 
The  consequences  need  not,  to  use  the  fashion- 
able phrase,  be  given  in  detail:  but  the  needle 
sets  all  to  rights;  and  the  card-table  still  holds 
possession  of  its  functions  without  a  rival. 

Clean  roads  and  milder  weather  have  once 
more  released  us,  opening  a  way  for  our  escape 
into  our  accustomed  walks.  We  have  both, 
I  believe,  been  sufferers  by  such  a  long  con- 
finement. Mrs.  Unwin  has  had  a  nervous  fever 
all  the  winter,  and  I  a  stomach  that  has  quar- 
relled with  everything,  and  not  seldom  even  with 
its  bread  and  butter.  Her  complaint,  I  hope,  is 
at  length  removed ;  but  mine  seems  more  obsti- 
nate, giving  way  to  nothing  that  I  can  oppose  to 
it,  except  just  in  the  moment  when  the  opposi- 
tion is  made.  I  ascribe  this  malady — both  our 
maladies,  indeed — in  a  great  measure,  to  our 
want  of  exercise.  We  have  each  of  us  practised 
more,  in  other  days,  than  lately  we  have  been 
able  to  take;  and  for  my  own  part,  till  I  was 
more  than  thirty  years  old,  it  was  almost 
essential  to  my  comfort  to  be  perpetually  in 
motion.  My  constitution,  therefore,  misses,  I 
doubt  not,  its  usual  aids  of  this  kind;  and 
unless,  for  purposes  which  I  cannot  foresee, 
Providence  should  interpose  to  prevent  it,  will 
probably  reach  the  moment  of  its  dissolution 
the  sooner  for  being  so  little  disturbed.  A 


CORRESPONDENCE   OF  COWPER. 


237 


yitiated  digestion,  I  believe,  always  terminates, 
if  not  cured,  in  the  production  of  some  chron- 
ical disorder.  In  several  I  have  known  it 
produce  a  dropsy.  But  no  matter.  Death  is 
inevitable,  and  whether  we  die  to-day  or  to- 
morrow, a  watery  death  or  a  dry  one,  is  of  no 
consequence.  The  state  of  our  spiritual  health 
is  all.  Could  I  discover  a  few  more  symptoms 
of  convalescence  there,  this  body  might  moulder 
into  its  original  dust  without  one  sigh  from 
me.  Nothing  of  all  this  did  I  mean  to  say ; 
but  I  have  said  it,  and  must  now  seek  another 
subject. 

One  of  our  most  favourite  walks  is  spoiled. 
The  spinney  is  cut  down  to  the  stumps :  even 
the  lilacs  and  the  svringas,  to  the  stumps. 
Little  did  I  think,  though  indeed  I  might  have 
thought  it,  that  the  trees  which  screened  me 
from  the  sun  last  summer  would  this  winter  be 
employed  in  roasting  potatoes  and  boiling  tea- 
kettles for  the  poor  of  Olney.  But  so  it  has 
proved ;  and  we  ourselves  have,  at  this  moment, 
more  than  two  waggon-loads  of  them  in  our 
wood-loft. 

Such  various  services  can  trees  perform  ; 
Whom  once  they  screened  from  heat,  in  time  they 
warm. 

TO   MK3.    NEWTON. 

March  4,  1780. 

DEAR  MADAM, — To  communicate  surprise  is 
almost,  perhaps  quite,  as  agreeable  as  to  re- 
ceive it.  This  is  my  present  motive  for  writing 
to  you  rather  than  to  Mr.  Newton.  He  would 
be  pleased  with  hearing  from  me,  but  'he  would 
not  be  surprised  at  it ;  you  see,  therefore,  I  am 
selfish  upon  the  present  occasion,  and  princi- 
pally consult  my  own  gratification.  Indeed, 
if  I  consulted  yours,  I  should  be  silent,  for  I 
have  no  such  budget  as  the  minister's,  furnished 
and  stuffed  with  ways  and  means  for  every 
emergency,  and  shall  find  it  difficult,  perhaps, 
to  raise  supplies  even  for  a  short  epistle. 

You  have  observed  in  common  conversation, 
that  the  man  who  coughs  the  oftenest,  I  mean 
if  he  has  not  a  cold,  does  it  because  he  has 
nothing  to  say.  Even  so  it  is  in  letter- writing: 
a  long  preface,  such  as  mine,  is  an  ugly 
symptom,  and  always  forebodes  great  sterility 
in  the  following  pages. 

The  vicarage  house  became  a  melancholy 
object  as  soon  as  Mr.  Newton  had  left  it; 
when  you  left  it,  it  became  more  melancholy: 
now  it  is  actually  occupied  by  another  family, 
even  I  cannot  look  at  it  without  being  shocked. 
As  I  walked  in  the  garden  this  evening,  I  saw 
the  smoke  issue  from  the  study  chimney,  and 
•aid  to  myself,  That  used  to  be  a  sign  that  Mr. 


Newton  was  there ;  but  it  is  so  no  longer.  The 
walls  of  the  house  know  nothing  of  the  change 
that  has  taken  place  ;  the  bolt  of  the  chamber- 
door  sounds  just  as  it  used  to  do ;  and  when 

Mr.  P goes  up-stairs,  for  aught  I  know, 

or  ever  shall  know,  the  fall  of  his  foot  could 
hardly  perhaps  be  distinguished  from  that  of 
Mr.  Newton.  But  Mr.  Newton's  foot  will 
never  be  heard  upon  that  staircase  again. 
These  reflections,  and  such  as  these,  occurred 
to  me  upon  the  occasion ;  .  .  .  If  I  were 
in  a  condition  to  leave  Olriey  too,  I  certainly 
would  not  stay  in  it.  It  is  no  attachment  to 
the  place  that  binds  me  here,  but  an  unfitness 
for  every  other.  I  lived  in  it  once,  but  now  I 
am  buried  in  it,  and  have  no  business  with  the 
world  on  the  outside  of  my  sepulchre;  my  ap- 
pearance would  startle  them,  and  theirs  would 
be  shocking  to  me. 

We  were  concerned  at  your  account  of  Robert, 
and  have  little  doubt  but  he  will  shuffle  himself 
out  of  his  place.  Where  he  will  find  another, 
is  a  question  not  to  be  resolved  by  those  who 
recommended  him  to  this.  I  wrote  him  a  long 
letter  a  day  or  two  after  the  receipt  of  yours, 
but  I  am  afraid  it  was  only  clapping  a  blister 
upon  the  crown  of  a  wig-block. 

My  respects  attend  Mr.  Newton  and  your- 
self, accompanied  with  much  affection  for  you 

Yours,  dear  Madam, 

W.  C. 

TO   THE    SAME. 

DEAR  MADAM, — When  I  write  to  Mr.  New- 
ton, he  answers  me  by  letter;  when  I  write  to 
you,  you  answer  me  in  fish.  I  return  you 
many  thanks  for  the  mackerel  and  lobster. 
They  assured  me  in  terms  as  intelligible  as  pen 
and  ink  could  have  spoken,  that  you  still  re- 
member Orchard-side;  and  though  they  never 
spoke  in  their  lives,  and  it  was  still  less  to  be 
expected  from  them  that  they  should  speak, 
being  dead,  they  gave  us  an  assurance  of  your 
affection  that  corresponds  exactly  with  that 
which  Mr.  Newton  expresses  towards  us  in  all 
his  letters. — For  my  own  part,  I  never  in  my 
life  began  a  letter  more  at  a  venture  than  the 
present.  It  is  possible  that  I  may  finish  it, 
but  perhaps  more  than  probable  that  I  shall 
not.  I  have  had  several  indifferent  nights, 
and  the  wind  is  easterly;  two  circumstances  so 
unfavourable  to  me  in  all  my  occupations,  but 
especially  that  of  writing,  that  it  was  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  I  could  even  bring  myself  to 
attempt  it. 

You  have  never  yet  perhaps  been  made  ac- 
quainted with  the  unfortunate  Tom  F '» 

misadventure.  He  and  his  wife,  returning  from 


233 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  COWPER, 


Hanslope  fair,  were  coming  down  Weston  Lane; 
to  wit,  themselves,  their  horse,  and  their  great 
wooden  paniers,  at  ten  o'clock  at  night.  The 
horse  having  a  lively  imagination,  and  very 
weak  nerves,  fancied  he  either  saw  or  heard 
something,  but  has  never  been  able  to  say 
what.  A  sudden  fright  will  impart  activity 
and  a  momentary  vigour  even  to  lameness 
itself.  Accordingly,  he  started,  and  sprang 
from  the  middle  of  the  road  to  the  side  of  it 
with  such  surprising  alacrity  that  he  dis- 
mounted the  gingerbread  baker  and  his  ginger- 
bread wife  in  a  moment.  Not  contented  with 
this  effort,  nor  thinking  himself  yet  out  of 
danger,  he  proceeded  as  fast  as  he  could  to  a 
full  gallop,  rushed  against  the  gate  at  the 
bottom  of  the  lane,  and  opened  it  for  himself, 
without  perceiving  that  there  was  any  gate 
there.  Still  he  galloped,  and  with  a  velocity 
and  momentum  continually  increasing,  till  he 
arrived  in  Olney.  I  had  been  in  bed  about 
ten  minutes  when  I  heard  the  most  uncommon 
and  unaccountable  noise  that  can  be  imagined. 
It  was,  in  fact,  occasioned  by  the  clattering  of 
tin  pattypans  and  a  Dutch  oven  against  the  sides 
of  the  paniers.  Much  gingerbread  was  picked 
up  in  the  street,  and  Mr.  Lucy's  windows  were 
broken  all  to  pieces.  Had  this  been  all,  it 
would  have  been  a  comedy,  but  we  learned  the 
next  morning  that  the  poor  woman's  collar- 
bone was  broken,  and  she  has  hardly  been  able 
to  resume  her  occupation  since. 

The  winter  sets  in  with  great  severity.  The 
rigour  of  the  season,  and  the  advanced  price  of 
grain,  are  very  threatening  to  the  poor.  It  is 
well  with  those  that  can  feed  upon  a  promise, 
and  wrap  themselves  up  warm  in  the  robe  of 
salvation.  A  good  fireside  and  a  well-spread 
table  are  but  very  indifferent  substitutes  for 
these  better  accommodations;  so  very  indiffer- 
ent, that  I  would  gladly  exchange  them  both 
for  the  rags  and  the  unsatisfied  hunger  of  the 
poorest  creature  that  looks  forward  with  hope 
to  a  better  world,  and  weep  tears  of  joy  in  the 
midst  of  penury  and  distress.  What  a  world 
is  this !  How  mysteriously  governed,  and,  in 
appearance,  left  to  itself.  One  man,  having  j 
squandered  thousands  at  a  gaming-table,  finds 
it  convenient  to  travel ;  gives  his  estate  to 
somebody  to  manage  for  him ;  amuses  himself 
a  few  years  in  France  and  Italy:  returns,  per- 
haps, wiser  than  he  went,  having  acquired 
knowledge  which,  but  for  his  follies,  he  would 
never  have  acquired;  again  makes  a  splendid 
figure  at  home,  shines  in  the  senate,  governs 
his  country  as  its  minister,  is  admired  for  his 
abilities,  and,  if  successful,  adored,  at  least  by 


a  party.  When  he  dies  he  is  praised  as  a 
demigod,  and  his  monument  records  everything 
but  his  vices.  The  exact  contrast  of  such  a 
picture  is  to  be  found  in  many  cottages  at 
Olney.  I  have  no  need  to  describe  them;  you 
know  the  characters  I  mean.  They  love  God, 
they  trust  him,  they  pray  to  him  in  secret, 
and  though  he  means  to  reward  them  openly, 
the  day  of  recompense  is  delayed.  In  the 
meantime  they  suffer  everything  that  infirmity 
and  poverty  can  inflict  upon  them.  Who  would 
suspect,  that  has  not  a  spiritual  eye  to  discern 
it,  that  the  fine  gentleman  was  one  whom  his 
Maker  had  in  abhorrence,  and  the  wretch  last- 
mentioned  dear  to  him  as  the  apple  of  his 
eye?  It  is  no  wonder  that  the  world,  who  are 
not  hi  the  secret,  find  themselves  obliged,  some 
of  them,  to  doubt  a  Providence,  and  others 
absolutely  to  deny  it,  when  almost  all  the  real 
virtue  there  is  in  it  is  to  be  found  living  and 
dying  in  a  state  of  neglected  obscurity,  and 
all  the  vices  of  others  cannot  exclude  them 
from  the  privilege  of  worship  and  honour ! 
But  behind  the  curtain  the  matter  isexpla'ned; 
very  little,  however,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
great. 

If  you  ask  me  why  I  have  written  thus,  and 
to  you  especially,  to  whom  there  was  no  need 
to  write  thus,  I  can  only  reply,  that  having  a 
letter  to  write,  and  no  news  to  communicate, 
I  picked  up  the  first  subject  I  found,  and  pur- 
sued it  aa  far  as  was  convenient  for  my  pur- 
pose. 

TO   UBS.    HILL. 

Feb.  19,  1781. 

DEAR  MADAM, — When  a  man,  especially  a 
man  that  lives  altogether  in  the  country, 
undertakes  to  write  to  a  lady  he  never  saw,  he 
is  the  awkwardest  creature  in  the  world.  He 
begins  his  letter  under  the  same  sensations  he 
would  have  if  he  was  to  accost  her  in  person, 
only  with  this  difference, — that  he  may  take 
as  much  time  as  he  pleases  for  consideration, 
and  need  not  write  a  single  word  that  he  has 
not  well  weighed  and  pondered  beforehand, 
much  less  a  sentence  that  he  does  net  think 
super-eminently  clever.  In  every  other  respect, 
whether  he  be  engaged  in  an  interview  or  in 
a  letter,  his  behaviour  is,  for  the  most  part, 
equally  constrained  and  unnatural.  He  re- 
solves, as  they  say,  to  set  the  best  leg  foremost, 
which  often  proves  to  be  what  Hudibras  calls — 


-Xot  that  of  bone. 


But  much  its  better    th'  wooden  one. 

His  extraordinary  effort  only  serves,  as  in  the 
case  of  that  hero,  to  throw  him  on  the  other 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  COWPER. 


239 


•ide  of  his  horse;  and  he  owes  his  want  of  suc- 
cess if  not  to  absolute  stupidity,  to  his  most 
earnest  endeavour  to  secure  it. 

Now  I  do  assure  you,  madam,  that  all  these 
sprightly  effusions  of  mine  stand  entirely  clear 
of  the  charge  of  premeditation,  and  that  I  never 
entered  upon  a  business  of  this  kind  with  more 
simplicity  in  my  life.  I  determined,  before  I 
began,  to  lay  aside  all  attempts  of  the  kind  I 
have  just  mentioned;  and  being  perfectly  free 
from  the  fetters  that  self-conceit,  commonly 
called  bashfulness,  fastens  upon  the  mind,  am, 
as  you  see,  surprisingly  brilliant. 

My  principal  design  is  to  thank  you  in  the 
plainest  terms,  which  always  afford  the  best 
proof  of  a  man's  sincerity,  for  your  obliging 
present.  The  seeds  will  make  a  figure  here- 
after in  the  stove  of  a  much  greater  man  than 
myself,  who  am  a  little  man,  with  no  stove  at 
nil.  Some  of  them,  however,  I  shall  raise  for 
my  own  amusement,  and  keep  them,  as  long 
as  they  can  be  kept,  in  a  bark  heat,  which  I 
give  them  all  the  year;  and  in  exchange  for 
those  I  part  with,  I  shall  receive  such  exotics 
as  are  not  too  delicate  for  a  greenhouse. 

I  will  not  omit  to  tell  you,  what  no  doubt 
you  have  heard  already,  though  perhaps  you 
have  never  made  the  experiment,  that  leaves 
gathered  at  the  fall  are  found  to  hold  their 
heat  much  longer  than  bark,  and  are  preferable 
in  every  respect.  Next  year  I  intend  to  use 
them  myself.  I  mention  it  because  Mr.  Hill 
told  me,  some  time  since,  that  he  was  building 
a  stove,  in  which,  I  suppose,  they  will  succeed 
much  better  than  in  a  frame. 

I  beg  to  thank  you  again,  madam,  for  the 
very  fine  salmon  you  was  so  kind  as  to  favour 
me  with,  which  has  all  the  sweetness  of  a  Hert- 
fordshire trout,  and  resembles  it  so  much  in 
flavour,  that,  blindfold,  I  should  not  have 
known  the  difference. 

I  beg,  madam,  you  will  accept  all  these 
thanks,  and  believe  them  as  sincere  as  they 
really  are.  Mr.  Hill  knows  me  well  enough 
to  be  able  to  Touch  for  me,  that  I  am  not  over- 
much addicted  to  compliments  and  fine  speeches ; 
nor  do  I  mean  either  the  one  or  the  other  when 
I  assure  you  that  I  am,  dear  madam,  not  merely 
for  his  sake,  but  your  own, 

Your  most  obedient  and  affectionate  servant, 

W.  C. 

TO  JOSEPH   HILL,    ESQ. 

Dec.  7,  1782. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — At  seven  o'clock  this 
evening,  being  the  seventh  of  December,  I 
imagine  I  see  you  in  your  box  at  the  coffee- 


house. No  doubt  the  waiter,  as  ingenious 
and  adroit  as  his  predecessors  were  before  him, 
raises  the  tea-pot  to  the  ceiling  with  his  right 
hand,  while  in  his  left  the  tea-cup,  descending 
almost  to  the  floor,  receives  a  limpid  stream; 
limpid  in  its  descent,  but  no  sooner  has  it 
reached  its  destination  than,  frothing  and 
foaming  to  the  view,  it  becomes  a  roaring 
syllabub.  This  is  the  nineteenth  winter  since  I 
saw  you  in  this  situation;  and  if  nineteen  more 
pass  over  me  before  I  die,  I  shall  still  remem- 
ber a  circumstance  we  have  often  laughed  at. 

How  different  is  the  complexion  of  your 
evenings  and  mine! — yours,  spent  amid  the 
ceaseless  hum  that  proceeds  from  the  inside  of 
fifty  noisy  and  busy  periwigs;  mine,  by  a  do- 
mestic fireside  in  a  retreat  as  silent  as  retire- 
ment can  make  it;  where  no  noise  is  made  but 
what  we  make  for  our  own  amusement.  For 
instance,  here  are  two  rustics  and  your  humble 
servant  in  company.  One  of  the  ladies  has 
been  playing  on  the  harpsichord,  while  I,  with 
the  other,  have  been  playing  at  battledore  and 
shuttle-cock.  A  little  dog  in  the  meantime, 
howling  under  the  chair  of  the  former,  per- 
formed, in  the  vocal  way,  to  admiration.  This 
entertainment  over,  I  began  my  letter,  and 
having  nothing  more  important  to  communi- 
cate, have  given  you  an  account  of  it.  I  know 
you  love  dearly  to  be  idle  when  you  can  find 
an  opportunity  to  be  so;  but  as  such  opportun- 
ities are  rare  with  you,  I  thought  it  possible 
that  a  short  description  of  the  idleness  I  enjoy 
might  give  you  pleasure.  The  happiness  we 
cannot  call  our  own  we  yet  seem  to  possess, 
while  we  sympathize  with  our  friends  who  can. 

The  papers  tell  me  that  peace  is  at  hand,  and 
that  it  is  at  a  great  distance;  that  the  siege  of 
Gibraltar  is  abandoned,  and  that  it  is  to  be 
still  continued.  It  is  happy  for  me  that, 
though  I  love  my  country,  I  have  but  little 
curiosity.  There  was  a  time  when  these  con- 
tradictions would  have  distressed  me,  but  I 
have  learned  by  experience  that  it  is  best  for 
little  people  like  myself  to  be  patient,  and  to 
wait  till  time  affords  the  intelligence  which  no 
speculations  of  theirs  can  ever  furnish. 

I  thank  you  for  a  fine  cod  with  oysters,  and 
hope  that  ere  long  I  shall  have  to  thank  you 
for  procuring  me  Elliott's  medicines.  Every 
time  I  feel  the  least  uneasiness  in  either  eye, 
I  tremble  lest,  my  ^Esculapius  being  departed, 
my  infallible  remedy  should  be  lost  for  ever. 
Adieu.  My  respects  to  Mrs.  Hill. 

Yours  faithfully, 

W.  C.1 


1  Private  Comspondence  of  William  Cotcper.    2  vota. 
London:  1824. 


240 


THE   ADOPTED   CHILD. 


CUPID  TAUGHT  BY  THE  GRACES. 

It  is  their  summer  haunt ; — a  giant  oak 
Stretches  its  sheltering  arm  above  their  heads, 
And  midst  the  twilight  of  depending  boughs 
They  \>ly  their  eager  task.     Between  them  sits 
A  l.riglit-haired  child,  whose  softly-glistening  wings 
Quiver  with  joy,  as  ever  and  anon 
He,  at  their  bidding,  sweeps  a  chorded  shell, 
And  draws  its  music  forth.     Wondering,  he  looks 
For  their  approving  smile,  and  quickly  drinks 
(Apt  pupil  I)  from  their  lips  instruction  sweet, — 
Divine  encouragement !     And  this  is  LOVE 
TAUGHT  BY  THE  GUACES  how  to  point  his  darts 
With  milder  mercy  and  discreeter  aim  ; 
To  stir  the  !>osom's  lyre  to  harmony, 
AnJ  waken  strains  of  music  from  its  chords 
They  never  gave  before ! 


A  CHOICE. 

Come  look  on  this  rose  with  its  lofty  stem, 
And  these  bright  green  leaves  around  it, 
And  say  if  in  Flora's  diadem 
There  shines  a  brighter  and  lovelier  gem, 
Or  did  Bulbul  err  when  his  queen  he  crowu'd  it? 

Methinks  it  blooms  like  a  youthful  bride 

In  nature's  and  art's  adorning, 
As  she  casts  on  high  her  looks  of  pride, 

The  lowly  around  her  scorning. 

Now  look  on  this  flower  of  heaven's  own  hue, 

This  violet  pensively  drooping, 
As  if  'twere  afraid  that  any  one  knew 
The  worth  of  its  beautiful  fragrance  and  hue, 

Bo  low  in  the  sward  it  is  stooping. 

The  creeping  ant  and  the  grasshopper 

Beneath  its  smiles  rejoice ; 
But  the  butterfly  sails  through  the  summer  air, 

And  spies  not  its  loveliness. 

Now  which  will  ye  choose— for  such  choice  is  cure- 
Ail  emblem  in  life  to  guide  ye? 
Will  ye  have  the  proud  crested  Queen  of  Flowers, 
The  i  omp  and  the  might  of  worldly  powers, 
The  honours  of  earth  beside  ye? 

Or  will  ye  not  lather  be  as  this 

Sweet  flower  which  smiles  in  a  hidden  spot, 
To  scatter  around  you  happiness, 
The  bloom  of  love  ami  the  breath  of  bliss, 

Where  tuo  lowly  may  feel  though  they  see  you  not  ? 

GEORGE  QODKUEY  CUNNINGHAM. 


THE  ADOPTED   CHILD. 

"  Why  wilt  thou  leave  me,  oh!  gentle  child? 
Thy  home  on  the  mountains  is  bleak  »ad  wild, 
A  straw-roofed  cabin  with  lowly  wall — 
Mine  is  a  fair  and  pillared  hall, 
Where  many  an  image  of  marble  gleams. 
And  the  sunshine  of  picture  for  ever  streams." 

"  Oh  !  green  is  the  turf  where  my  brothers  play 
Through  the  long  bright  hours  of  the  summer's  day  ; 
They  find  the  rSd  cup-moss  where  they  climb, 
And  they  chase  the  bee  o'er  the  scented  thyme ; 
And  the  rocks  where  the  heath-flower    blooms   they 

know — 
Lady,  kind  lady,  oh !  let  me  go !" 

"Content  thee.  boy,  in  iny  bower  to  dwell! 
Here  are  sweet  sounds  which  thou  lovest  well: 
Flutes  on  the  air  in  the  stilly  noon  — 
Harps  which  the  wandering  breezes  tune ; 
And  the  silvery  wood-note  of  many  a  bird 
Whose  voice  was  ne'er  in  thy  mountains  heard." 

"  My  mother  sings  at  the  twilight's  fall, 
A  song  of  the  hills  more  sweet  than  all ; 
She  sings  it  under  her  own  green  tree, 
To  the  babe  half  slumbering  on  her  knee, 
I  dreamt  last  night  of  that  music  low- 
Lady,  kind  lady,  oh  !  let  me  go  1" 

"  Thy  mother  is  gone  from  her  carec  to  rest, 
She  hath  taken  the  babe  to  her  quiet  b  east; 
Thou  wouldst  meet  her  footstep,  my  boy,  no  more, 
Nor  hear  her  song  at  the  cabin-door. 
Come  thou  with  me  to  the  vineyard  nigh, 
And  we'll  pluck  the  grapes  of  the  richest  dye." 

"  Is  my  mother  gone  from  her  home  away  ? 

But  I  know  that  my  brothers  are  there  at  play ! 

I  know  they  are  gathering  the  foxglove's  bell, 

And  the  long  fern  leaves  by  the  sparkling  well  — 

Or  they  launch  their  boats  where  the  blue  streams  flow  — 

Lady,  sweet  lady,  oh  1  let  hue  go  1" 

"  Fair  child  !  thy  brothers  are  wanderers  now, 
They  sport  no  more  on  the  mountain's  brow ; 
They  have  left  the  fern  by  the  spring's  green  sidi. 
And  the  streams  where  the  fairy  barks  were  tried. 
Be  thou  at  peace  in  thy  brighter  lot, 
For  thy  cabin  home  is  a  lonely  spot." 

"  Are  they  gone,  all  gone  from  the  sunny  hill?-  - 
But  the  bird  and  theblue-ny  roam  o'er  it  still; 
And  the  red  deer  bound,  in  their  gladness  free, 
And  the  heath  ia  bent  by  the  singing  bee : 
And  the  waters  leap  and  the  fresh  winds  blow — 
Lady,  sweet  lady,  oh  1  let  me  go  |" 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


241 


MY  NAMESAKE. 

BY    BON    GAULTIER. 

[Theodore  Martin,  born  in  Edinburgh,  16th  Sep- 
tember, 1816.  He  was  the  joint-author,  with  Professor 
Aytoun,  of  the  famous  Bon  Gaultier  ballads  and  tales — 
of  which  series  lie  was  the  originator.  In  his  Life  of 
Aytoim  (Bluckwooil  and  Sons,  1867)  he  says:  ''Some 
papeis  of  a  humorous  kind  which  I  had  publishe  1 
uiuler  the  nnm  de  plume  of  Bon  Ganltier,1  had  hit 
Aytoun's  fancy;  and  when  I  proposed  to  go  on  with 
others  in  a  similar  vein,  he  fell  readily  into  the  plan, 
and  agreed  to  assist  in  it.  In  this  way  a  kind  of 
Beaumont-and-Fletcher  partnership  commenced  in  a 
series  of  humorous  papers  which  appeared  in  Tail's 
and  Fraser's  Magazines  during  the  years  184'2, 1843,  and 
1844."  The  following  tale  was  published  in  Franer's 
Magazine,  December,  1812.  Amongst  Mr.  Martin's 
valuable  translations  are:  Goethe's  Faust;  Odes  of 
Horace;  Catullus;  The  Vda  Nuova  of  Dante ;  Aladdin, 
a  Dramatic  Poem,  and  Cnrrtggio,  a.  Tragedy,  both  by 
Oehlenschlaeger;  and  King  Rene's  Daughter,  a,  Danish 
lyrical  drama  by  Heurik  Hertz.  Under  the  special 
sanction  of  Her  Majesty  the  Queen,  Mr.  Martin  wrote 
the  "Life  of  II.  R.  H.  the  Prince  Cumort." 

Why  was  I  called  Brown — why  John  Brown? 
The  cruelty  of  custom !  to  fasten  upon  me  such 
an  every-day  sort  of  name,  solely  because  my 
ancestors  had  borne  it  contentedly  for  years. 
If  it  had  only  been  Alfred  Brown,  or  Frederick, 
or  even  Edward,  the  thing  might  have  passed; 
but  John  Brown  !  There  is  no  getting  over  the 
commonplace  of  the  cognomen.  John  Brown 
is  everybody,  anybody,  nobody.  Any  one 
John  Brown  is  quite  as  good  as  another:  he 
belongs  to  a  class  so  numerous  that  it  is  vain 
to  attempt  to  individualize  your  conceptions 
of  them.  Had  ever  any  man  a  distinct  idea 
of  a  John  Brown?  No!  There  are  at  least 
some  fifty  of  his  acquaintances  who  bear  the 
name,  and  these  are  all  jumbled  together  in 
his  mind  in  one  vague  and  undefined  chaos, — 

"A  mighty  maze,  and  all  without  a  plan." 

We  are  the  nobodies  of  society. 

"  John,  my  boy,"  said  my  father  to  me  one 
day,  "  John,  my  boy,  we  are  a  pair  of  miser- 
able selfish  dogs  living  here,  a  brace  of  bachelors, 
upon  the  fat  of  the  land,  with  not  a  bit  of 
womankind  about  us.  This  sort  of  thing  will 
never  do.  One  or  other  of  us  must  get  married, 
that's  plain.  I'm  a  thought  too  old  for  it; 
besides  that  my  regard  for  your  poor  dear 
mother  will  hardly  allow  me ;  so,  John,  my 
boy,  the  lot  falls  on  you.  What  say  you  to 
the  plan  ?  " 


1  The  name  is  taken  from  the  prologue  to  the  flwt 
book  of  Rabdais, 
VOL.  I. 


"Oh,  I'm  perfectly  agreeable,  if  you  wish 
it;  indeed,  I  rather  like  the  plan  than  other- 
wise." 

"Indeed,  you  rather  like  the  plan  than 
otherwise  !  You  apathetic  puppy,  you  should 
go  into  raptures  about  it.  You  don't  know 
what  a  splendid  thing  it  makes  life  to  have  a 
fine,  affectionate,  gentle-hearted  creature  for 
the  wife  of  your  bosom — 

"  '  The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  concealed  comforts  of  a  man 
Lock'd  up  in  woman's  love.' 

The  old  boy  who  wrote  that  knew  what  was 
what." 

"  Well,  well,  father,  I  bow  to  your  experi- 
ence; and,  since  you  wish  it,  shall  look  out  for 
a  better-half  forthwith.  But  perhaps  you  can 
give  me  a  hint  where  to  direct  my  search?" 
I  continued,  seeing,  from  the  old  gentleman's 
looks,  that  he  had  some  project  on  his  mind, 
of  which  he  was  bursting  to  unburden  it. 

"  I  think  I  can,  indeed.     A  splendid  girl!" 

"No?    Who  is  she?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  tickled  your  curiosity,  have  I? 
It  would  serve  you  right,  you  cold-blooded 
rascal,  not  to  tell  you." 

"  Nay,  but — 

"Well,  well,  I'll  be  merciful.  So,  then, 
what  say  you  to  the  daughter  of  my  very  worthy 
friend  David  Smith  of  Edinburgh?" 

"Smith!"  I  exclaimed  in  dismay,  thinking 
of  the  unhappy  conjunction  of  the  uncommon 
names  of  Brown  and  Smith. 

"  Yes,  sir,  Miss  Smith — Miss  Julia  Smith. 
Have  you  any  objection  to  the  lady,  you 
puppy,  that  you  stand  staring  at  me  as  if  I 
were  a  hobgoblin?" 

Julia  Smith !  The  Julia  did  certainly  set 
off  the  surname  a  little.  It  was  not  so  bad, 
after  all.  "  Objection,  sir?  None  in  the  world. 
How  could  I,  when  the  lady  may  be  as  beauti- 
Al  as  day,  and  as  amiable  as  Mrs.  Chapone, 
for  anything  I  know?" 

"  None  of  your  sneering,  you  impudent  dog, 
or  I'll  knock  you  down.  The  girl  is  only  too 
good  for  you  every  way.  If  you  haven't  seen 
her,  I  have,  and  that's  enough.  But  there  is 
no  time  to  be  lost.  I  warrant  me  there  are  lots 
of  young  fellows  ready  to  throw  themselves  at 
her  feet,  and  you  may  be  cut  out  before  you 
can  say  Jack  Robinson.  So  the  sooner  you 
see  her  the  better.  Smith  and  myself  have 
talked  over  the  matter  together.  He  is  anxious 
for  the  match,  and  you  start  therefore  with  the 
odds  in  your  favour.  I  have  written  to  him 
to  expect  you  this  week.  So  be  off  with  you, 
my  boy;  and  if  you  don't  secure  the  prize,  order 
16 


212 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


a  new  pair  of  garters,  and  hang  yourself  in 
them  upon  a  day's  notice." 

Expostulation  was  out  of  the  question,  and 
I  therefore  set  about  the  execution  of  the  old 
gentleman's  project  without  delay.  Indeed, 
it  jumped  more  with  my  own  inclination  than 
I  cared  to  tell  him.  I  was  heartily  tired  of  a 
bachelor's  life ;  and  being  well  to  do,  at  least, 
if  not  rich,  with  the  certainty  of  succeeding  to 
my  father's  fortune,  which  was  considerable, 
in  perspective,  marriage  appeared  to  me  to  be 
at  once  a  duty  and  a  pleasure.  In  short,  I 
had  at  that  moment  a  favourable  predisposi- 
tion towards  the  sex  in  general ;  and  as  Miss 
Julia  Smith  had  been  selected  as  my  bride,  I 
was  perfectly  contented  with  the  arrangement, 
provided  always  that  the  lady  came  up  to  my 
father's  description  of  her,  and  had  herself  no 
objection  to  the  match.  I  drove  to  Charing 
Cross,  and  was  just  in  time  to  secure  the  only 
sleeping-berth  in  the  Clarence  steam-packet  for 
Leith  that  was  left  untaken.  I  also  engaged 
a  seat  in  the  omnibus  for  Blackwall,  and, 
directing  that  I  should  be  taken  up  at  the  end 
of  Ludgate  Street,  I  returned  home  to  make 
the  necessary  arrangements  for  my  expedi- 
tion. 

St.  Paul's  bell  was  intimating  to  the  pub- 
lic that  nine  hours  and  a  quarter  had  elapsed 
since  noon,  when,  punctual  to  a  minute,  up 
Blattered  the  omnibus.  On  it  rolled,  giving  no 
indication  of  an  intention  to  stop ;  but,  by 
directing  sundry  excited  gestures  towards  the 
conductor  of  the  vehicle,  I  at  length  succeeded 
in  getting  him  to  pull  up. 

"  Full,  sir,  out  and  in,"  said  the  cad  in  a 
commiserating  tone. 

"Full — the  deuce  you  are!  Didn't  I  book 
myself  for  a  place?" 

"  Can't  say,  really.  Ve've  got  our  comple- 
ment, any  vay." 

"  Isn't  the  name  of  Brown  on  your  list!" 
"Brown?"  * 

"Yes,  Mr.  Brown — Mr.  John  Brown." 
"  Veil,  vot  of  it?  Ve've  got  two  Browns  in 
the  buss,  von  on  'em  a  Mr.  John  Brown;  took 
him  up  at  Vellington  Street,  Strand.  More 
brorens  than  guineas  goin'  vith  us  any  day, 
I  b'lieve  you.  Drive  on,  Bill,  time's  up!"  and 
away  dashed  the  omnibus,  leaving  me  at  the 
mercy  of  a  dozen  or  two  of  cab-drivers,  who  by 
this  time  had  seen  my  predicament,  and  had 
each  deposited  me  in  imagination  in  his  own 
break-neck  conveyance.  In  a  moment  of  des- 
peration I  consigned  myself  to  the  management 
of  one  of  these  gentlemen,  and,  shutting  my 
eyes  to  danger,  allowed  him  to  drive  me  in  his 
•wn  reckless  and  fanciful  manner  to  the  wharf 


at  Blackwall.  I  was  just  in  time  and  no 
more;  which  had  merely  the  effect  of  enabling 
the  cab-driver  to  charge  me  about  five  times 
as  much  as  he  was  entitled  to — knowing  well 
that  I  was  not  likely  to  stay  behind  to  call 
him  to  account. 

Having  seen  my  portmanteaus  safely  de- 
posited on  deck,  I  proceeded  to  reconnoitre 
my  sleeping  berth.  I  had  been  extremely 
fortunate  in  my  selection ;  it  was  an  upper 
berth,  nearly  amidships;  and,  congratulating 
myself  on  the  "snug  lying"  I  was  likely  to 
have  during  the  voyage,  I  made  my  way  to  the 
cabin.  The  vessel  was  crowded  to  inconveni- 
ence ;  every  seat  was  occupied,  and  every  man 
seemed  to  be  vying  with  his  neighbour  in  the 
consumption  of  cold  beef,  ham,  ship-biscuit, 
mustard,  Jamaica  pickles,  porter,  and  brandy - 
and-water.  The  heat  was  intolerable,  and  I 
went  on  deck  to  refresh  myself  with  the  cool 
breeze  that  played  across  the  water,  and  there 
I  sat  watching  the  vessels  that  glided  past  us 
like  so  many  ghosts  as  we  descended  the 
Thames,  till  all  the  other  passengers  had  re- 
tired to  rest. 

Cold  and  wearied  I  made  my  way  down 
stairs,  through  avenues  of  sleepers  distributed 
over  every  couch  that  could  be  made  to  do 
duty  for  a  bed — a  duty  which,  if  anything 
might  be  augured  from  the  groans  of  dissatis- 
faction that  rose  up  here  and  there  through  the 
saloon,  they  did  very  ill.  "Poor  devils!"  I 
said  to  myself,  letting  off  a  little  of  that  super- 
fluous sympathy  which  costs  a  man  nothing, 
but  is  very  comfortable  to  the  conscience, 
nevertheless.  Having  with  some'  difficulty 
gained  the  sleeping  cabin,  I  proceeded  to  un- 
dress by  the  dim  light  of  a  lamp  that  was 
fighting  desperately  against  a  predisposition  to 
go  out,  and  had  begun  to  scramble  into  my 
berth',  when,  hark!  a  snore?  No,  it  could  not 
be!  Another,  a  distinct,  and  most  unmistak- 
able snore!  I  peered  forward  into  the  gloom; 
and,  judge  of  my  dismay,  when,  protruding 
from  the  bed-clothes,  I  beheld  a  head  fringed 
with  jet-black  whiskers,  and  surmounted  by 
a  nightcap,  the  proprietor  of  which,  undis- 
turbed by  my  approach,  continued  to  doze 
away  like  a  dormouse.  Here  was  a  pretty 
position  to  be  in — to  be  standing  nearly  in  a 
state  of  nature,  at  three  in  the  morning,  in 
the  sleeping-cabin  of  a  steamboat,  shut  out  of 
my  berth,  and  not  a  corner  to  take  refuge  in 
anywhere!  It  would  have  provoked  a  saint, 
and  yet  I  could  not  think  of  rousing  the 
usurper  of  my  bed,  and  turning  him  out  by  a 
process  of  summary  ejectment.  There  might 
be  some  mistake ;  but,  then,  No.  32,  that  cer- 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


243 


tainly  was  my  berth.  I  looked  at  my  ticket 
to  make  sure.  Yes,  there  it  was,  No.  32. 
Something  must  be  done,  however ;  for  I  felt 
my  pei-son  growing  chiller  and  chiller,  and  my 
teeth  began  to  chatter  like  a  fulling-mill.  I 
whipped  on  my  small-clothes,  and,  with  my 
feet  thrust  into  a  stray  pair  of  slippers,  felt 
my  way  back  through  the  cabin  to  the  sanctum 
of  the  steward,  to  whom  I  detailed  the  hard- 
ships of  my  case.  He  turned  up  his  book, 
and  there,  certainly,  opposite  No.  32,  stood 
the  name  of  Mr.  John  Brown.  "  That's  me!" 
I  exclaimed  triumphantly,  pointing  to  the 
place ;  when  my  eyes,  glancing  along  the  page, 
alighted  upon  a  succession  of  Mr.  Browns,  and 
near  the  bottom,  among  the  "waifs  "  who  had 
no  berths  provided  for  them,  but  were  to  take 
their  chance  of  a  sleeping-place  anywhere, 
stood  the  name  of  a  Mr.  John  Brown  at  full 
length. 

"I  see  how  it  is,  sir;  this  Mr.  Brown  has 
got  into  your  bed  by  mistake,"  said  the  pur- 
veyor of  victuals.  We  must  see  what  we  can 
do  for  you." 

Saying  this  he  accompanied  me  below,  where 
he  commenced  a  sort  of  custom-house  inspec- 
tion of  the  intruder's  travelling  gear.  "Just 
as  I  said,  sir;  there  it  is,  Mr.  John  Brown!" 
he  exclaimed,  pointing  to  a  brass  plate  upon 
a  portmanteau  bearing  that  interesting  in- 
scription. Confound  the  fellow  !  I  could  have 
sworn  it  was  the  same  person  that  cut  me  out 
of  my  seat  in  the  omnibus.  It  was  provoking 
to  a  degree.  But  I  was  always  conspicuous 
for  good-nature,  and  even  here  it  got  the  better 
of  my  wrath.  He  might  have  done  it  quite 
innocently;  and,  upon  reflection  how  horribly 
uncomfortable  it  would  be  for  him  to  be  turned 
out  of  a  warm  bed  in  the  middle  of  his  first 
sleep,  I  told  the  steward  if  he  could  stow  me 
away  anywhere  for  the  night,  I  shouldn't 
mind. 

There  was  a  place  that  had  apparently  been 
at  one  time  intended  for  a  berth — a  cramped, 
dark,  mouldy  sort  of  place,  where  all  the  dirty 
table-cloths  and  towels,  the  accumulation  of 
three  or  four  voyages,  were  crammed  ;  and 
this,  it  occurred,  might  be  turned  into  a  recep- 
tacle for  my  wearied  limbs.  It  was  better 
than  want,  at  all  events;  and,  accordingly, 
after  the  "filthy  dowlas"  had  been  routed 
out,  and  a  mattress  and  its  appendages  tumbled 
in,  I  followed  the  example  of  the  latter  articles, 
and  deposited  my  person  in  the  aperture.  Such 
a  hole  did  never  man  confide  himself  to,  ex- 
cept with  a  view  to  suicide.  Falstaff  in  the 
buck-basket  inhaled  not  more  unsavoury  per- 
fumes ;  Prometheus  chained  to  the  rock  had  a 


resting-place  as  soft.  Anything  like  sleep  was 
out  of  the  question.  Every  roll  of  the  vessel 
transfixed  my  person  upon  some  acute  angle, 
of  which  there  were  countless  numbers,  formed, 
Heaven  and  the  ship's  carpenter  alone  knew 
how;  and  just  as  I  might  be  going  pff  into  a 
doze,  roll  went  the  vessel,  and  bang  went  my 
haunch  against  an  obtrusive  angle  of  my  bed, 
in  a  way  that  left  me  groaning  for  the  next 
half-hour.  Snore — snore,  went  all  the  noses 
in  the  place,  with  a  demoniac  purpose  to  taunt 
my  sleepless  wretchedness.  I  distinctly  heard 
that  fellow  Brown.  There  was  a  sort  of  gurgle 
in  his  note ;  he  was  chuckling  in  his  sleep  at 
my  discomfort.  The  impulse  to  rise  and 
strangle  him  seized  me  more  than  once ;  in- 
deed, how  I  restrained  myself  is  to  this  moment 
a  mystery  to  me. 

At  length  day  broke,  and  heads,  with  night- 
caps, began  to  pop  out  from  behind  the  cur- 
tains, and  after  looking  round  with  no  very 
definite  purpose,  popped  in  again.  Some  time 
after,  the  steward's  boy  entered  the  cabin,  and 
husky  voices  were  heard  demanding  what  was 
the  hour  and  whereabout  the  vessel  was.  It 
was  by  this  time  blowing  pretty  fresh,  but  as 
most  of  the  passengers  were  as  yet  nearly  as 
fresh  as  the  breeze,  they  had  the  temerity  to 
get  up,  and,  one  after  another,  disappeared 
up  stairs.  At  last  my  namesake,  Mr.  John 
Brown,  emerged  from  his  dormitory  and  pro- 
ceeded to  dress  himself.  I  lay  watching  the 
villain  with  quiet  disgust.  He  was  a  good- 
looking  man  of  some  eight-and-twenty,  with 
a  prominent  nose  and  sharp  dark  eyes.  His 
florid  complexion  bespoke  him  of  that  com- 
fortable, sanguine  temperament  which  nothing 
can  dash,  but  which,  in  all  seasons  and  cir- 
cumstances, retains  an  easy  and  self-satisfied 
complacency.  There  was  a  desperate  independ- 
ence about  the  man,  of  which  a  nervous  per- 
son, like  myself,  would  have  given  worlds  to 
have  had  a  sprinkling;  and,  besides  all  this, 
he  had  a  look  of  freshness  and  vigour  natural 
to  one  who  has  had  a  good  night's  rest,  that  to 
me,  who  had  not  shut  an  eye,  was  sufficiently 
aggravating.  He  was  one  of  those  people,  too, 
the  nuisances  of  steamboats,  who  take  a  long 
hour  to  fit  themselves  up  for  the  day,  who 
monopolize  the  dressing-place,  splashing  and 
spluttering,  and  gobble — obble — obbleing  in 
one  basin  of  water  after  another  till  the  other 
passengers  grow  revolutionary  and  the  under- 
steward  shows  symptoms  of  partial  delirium. 
Although  the  breakfast-bell  had  sounded  for 
some  time,  still  did  Mr.  John  Brown  keep 
combing  his  whiskers,  paring  his  nails,  polish- 
ing his  teeth,  and  adjusting  a  thousand  et- 


244 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


ceteraa  about  his  person,  whilst  I  lay  frying 
with  impatience  to  hear  the  clatter  of  cups 
overhead,  and  the  everlasting"  calls  for  herrings 
and  buttered  toast.  My  appetite  was  growing 
decidedly  wolfish,  and  yet  there  stood  that 
detestable  namesake  of  mine,  ducking  and 
diving  into  the  basin-stand,  and  swilling  his 
face  and  neck  with  oceans  of  water  as  though 
he  were  never  to  have  done.  There  was  no 
hope  for  me,  so  I  sunk  back  upon  my  pillow 
and  resigned  myself  to  my  fate.  The  breeze 
had  continued  to  freshen,  and  by  the  time  my 
tormentor  had  finished  his  toilette,  it  was  a 
matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  me  what  he 
did,  provided  I  were  left  to  the  calm  indul- 
gence of  my  misery.  The  truth  is,  that  I  be- 
came extremely  sick,  and  after  this  feeling  had 
gone  off  it  left  a  splitting  headache  behind  to 
keep  me  company.  One  by  one  the  inmates 
of  the  cabin,  that  had  left  it  full  of  buoyancy 
and  animation  for  the  breakfast-table,  re- 
turned pale,  with  ashy  lips  and  uncertain 
steps.  It  was  comfort  to  me  to  watch  the 
reckless  haste  with  which  they  tore  off  their 
garments  and  plunged  into  their  berths,  where 
they  lay  groaning  in  a  manner  that  would 
have  been  pitiable  but  for  its  being  ludicrous. 
I  had  grown  utterly  callous,  and  felt  a  savage 
pleasure  in  knowing  that  there  were  others  as 
uncomfortable,  or  nearly  so,  as  myself.  The 
three  days  that  followed  were  a  blank  in  my 
existence.  Hour  succeeded  hour  and  brought 
with  it  no  relief.  It  was  blowing  great  guns 
all  the  time;  and  what  between  the  rolling, 
pitching,  and  swinging  of  the  vessel,  the 
straining  of  her  timbers,  the  vibration  of  the 
engine,  and  the  howling  of  the  wind,  we  had 
about  as  much  torture  concentrated  into  a 
compact  space  as  any  merely  human  imagina- 
tion can  conceive.  But  all  aquatic,  as  well  as 
all  terrestrial  things,  even  a  rough  sea-voyage, 
must  come  to  an  end,  and  so  did  ours,  just  as 
our  coals  were  within  a  few  shovelsfull  of  run- 
ning out,  and  sundry  wags  were  beginning  to 
sport  forlorn  jokes  about  immolating  and  cook- 
ing the  steward  for  lack  of  other  provisions. 

If  anything  could  have  compensated  me  for 
the  misery  I  had  undergone,  it  would  have 
been  our  disembarkation  at  Newhaven  on  a 
bright  sunshiny  morning.  The  change  which 
the  Toyage  had  produced  upon  the  passengers 
was  miraculous,  "a  thing  to  dream  of,  not  to 
tell."  Pride,  puppyism,  and  fine  airs  had  all 
vanished,  and  the  whole  body  were  reduced  to 
one  common  level  of  helplessness  that  seemed 
to  say,  "You  may  do  with  us  whatever  you 
please."  Dandies,  with  dishevelled  hair  and 
disordered  attire,  drooped  over  the  side  of  the 


steamer  that  carried  us  ashore,  with  visages 
mottled  into  a  variety  of  tints  as  numerous  ae 
the  rainbow's,  a  purply-blue  predominating. 
Blustering  town-councillors  and  arrogant  cock- 
neys— fat,  apoplectic  men — had  sunk  into 
their  native  smallness,  and  skulked  anywhere. 
As  for  the  ladies,  their  plight  defies  descrip- 
tion. Silks  and  satins  crumpled  and  stained 
past  recovery,  bonnets  bruised  into  the  most 
fantastic  shapes,  parasols  in  fragments,  and 
bandboxes  falling  to  pieces,  .were  everywhere 
to  be  seen.  Cheeks  without  the  bloom,  eyes 
robbed  of  the  lustre  that  had  wooed  admiration 
when  we  started,  and  hair  without  glossiness, 
straggling  unreproved  across  the  so  lately 
dazzling  brow,  left  all  devotees  to  the  sex  to 
mourn  over  what  Byron  calls — 

"The  beauty  of  the  sick  ladies  (Cydo.de*)" 

But  I  soon  found  that  I  had  something  else 
to  mourn  over  that  concerned  me  more  nearly, 
which  was  the  loss  of  a  small  portmanteau, 
containing  all  my  letters  and  private  papers. 
Hurrying  back  to  the  steamer  and  pouncing 
upon  the  cabin-boy,  I  demanded  of  him  if  he 
had  seen  it. 

"Oh!  you  mean  a  square,  narrow,  brown 
leather  thing?"  inquired  the  urchin,  in  a  voice 
of  hateful  indifference. 

"Yes,  yes,  exactly!"  replied  I. 

"  With  a  handle  over  the  top  and  a  brass 
plate  with  the  name  of  Mr.  John  Brown  upon 
it?" 

"The  very  thing!"  I  exclaimed  in  rapture, 
thinking  it  was  all  safe.  "And  where  is  it?" 

"Oh!  sir,  the  other  gentleman's  got  it." 

"  The  other  gentleman !  And  who  the  devil 
is  the  other  gentleman?" 

"  Mr.  John  Brown,  sir;  him  as  got  into  your 
berth,  you  know.  He  went  ashore  when  we 
cast  anchor  last  night,  and  I  remember  seeing 
the  steward  take  it  on  deck  with  the  gentle- 
man's other  things. " 

Confound  that  Mr.  John  Brown!  he  waa 
doomed  to  be  my  annoyance  at  every  turning! 
He  had  kept  me  in  hot  water  ever  since  I 
started,  and  the  very  first  move  he  makes  in 
Scotland  puts  me  to  a  nonplus,  for  in  that 
portmanteau  were  my  letter  to  old  Smith  and 
all  my  other  introductions.  It  was  of  no  use 
fretting,  however.  He  surely  would  never  think 
of  appropriating  my  property.  I  should  hear 
of  it  at  the  steamboat-office,  no  doubt,  next 
day;  and  in  this  hope  I  drove  up  to  the  Crown 
Hotel,  where,  after  replenishing  the  vacancy 
which  the  fast  of  the  last  three  days  had  occa- 
sioned, and  putting  myself  into  presentable 
attire,  I  called  for  a  directory,  to  search  for 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


245 


the  •whereabouts  of  my  prospective  father-in- 
law,  of  which  I  knew  no  more  than  the  man 
in  the  moon,  having  trusted  to  the  direction 
upon  my  letter  for  that  information.  Among 
the  interminable  list  of  Smiths  I  found,  at 
least,  a  score  of  David  Smiths.  One  of  these 
lived  in  Castle  Street.  "Castle  Street,  that 
is  the  place,"  said  I,  repeating  the  name,  till 
I  worked  myself  into  the  belief  that  I  had 
heard  it  mentioned  before  as  the  residence  of 
my  father's  friend.  For  Castle  Street,  accord- 
ingly, I  made,  and  there  found  the  house, 
which,  to  my  discomfiture,  was  shut  up.  The 
brass  plate  was  the  colour  of  bronze,  not  hav- 
ing been  scoured  for  weeks,  and  I  was  just 
able  to  decipher  the  name  of  Mr.  David  Smith 
upon  it.  A  written  placard  in  one  of  the 
windows  intimated  that  letters  and  parcels 
were  to  be  left  at  Mr.  M'Grugar's,  solicitor, 
103  Queen  Street,  to  whose  chambers  I  pro- 
ceeded to  inquire  whither  Mr.  Smith  and  his 
daughter  had  emigrated. 

Mr.  M'Grugar  was  not  at  home,  and  I  was 
ushered  into  a  room  where  three  of  his  clerks 
were  seated.  A  hurried  and  scuffling  sound, 
as  if  of  desk-lids  being  slammed  down,  and  of 
people  jumping  up  upon  stools,  was  heard  as 
I  approached  the  door,  and  when  I  entered, 
the  youthful  scriveners  were  driving  their  quills 
vehemently  across  the  paper  before  them  as  if 
they  were  bent  upon  making  a  fortune  at 
threepence  a  page. 

"  Mr.  M'Grugar  is  not  at  home,  I  believe?" 
said  I. 

"No,  sir,  he  is  not.  He  is  in  Fifeshire  at 
present  on  business  of  Lord  Chowderhead's. 
Did  you  wish  to  see  him  particularly?"  replied 
a  raffish-looking  youngster,  with  a  dirty  shirt 
and  a  breath  that  savoured  strongly  of  "half- 
and-half,"  who  looked  altogether  very  much 
as  if  he  had  not  been  in  bed  the  night  before. 

"  Oh,  no!  nothing  particular.  Perhaps  you 
can  tell  me  what  part  of  the  country  Mr.  Smith 
of  Castle  Street  is  gone  to?" 

"Thomson,  do  you  know  where  old  Smith 
is  just  now?"  said  the  youth  in  the  foul  linen 
to  another  youth  with  an  immense  shock  of 
red  hair  and  great  owlish  eyes,  with  which  he 
had  been  staring  at  me  over  the  top  of  the 
desk  ever  since  I  entered. 

"Od,  I'm  thinking  he'll  be  some  wye  (way) 
doon  about  Ayrshire !  He  gangs  there  files 
(at  times)  in  the  summer  time,"  returned 
Thomson  in  a  strong  Banffshire  accent. 

"Wasn't  his  last  letter  dated  from  Jed- 
burgh?"  broke  in  a  shabby-looking,  smoke- 
dried  piece  of  humanity,  who  had  hitherto 
been  amusing  himself  with  biting  his  nails. 


"Ah,  you're  right;  so  it  was,"  said  the  first 
speaker,  turning  to  me  once  more.  "  I  be- 
lieve, sir,  he  is  either  in  Roxburghshire  or 
Ayrshire  at  present,  and  any  letter  addressed 
to  him  at  either  of  these  places  will  be  sure  to 
find  him." 

This  was  definite  information  with  a  ven- 
geance. Mr.  M'Grugar's  clerks,  it  was  plain, 
knew  as  much  about  Mr.  Smith's  movements 
as  they  knew  about  law,  so  I  inquired  when 
their  master  was  to  return  to  town,  and  learn- 
ing that  this  would  not  be  till  the  end  of  the 
week,  I  left  his  chambers,  resolving  to  make 
the  most  of  my  time  in  examining  the  locali- 
ties of  modern  Athens  and  its  environs  till  his 
return. 


[In  an  elegantly  furnished  drawing-room, 
that  same  evening,  sat  an  old  gentleman  and 
his  daughter.  The  lady  was  seated  at  the 
piano,  and  sang  in  a  clear  and  most  tuneful 
voice  from  a  volume  of  Scottish  melodies,  while 
the  old  gentleman  lay  back  in  his  easy  chair, 
with  eyes  running  over  with  tears  of  quiet  joy, 
as  he  listened  to  the  plaintive  strains  to  which 
the  beloved  notes  of  his  daughter's  voice  gave 
thrilling  expression.  The  door  opened,  and 
the  servant's  announcement  of  "Mr.  Brown" 
was  followed  by  the  entrance  of  that  gentleman, 
who  bowed  gracefully  to  a  fire-screen,  which  in 
the  haze  of  twilight  he  mistook  for  the  owner 
of  the  house. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
starting  forward  and  grasping  him  warmly  by 
the  hand,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you — very 
glad,  indeed.  Julia,  my  dear,  this  is  Mr. 
Brown  that  I  mentioned  to  you.  Mr.  Brown, 
my  daughter."  Mr.  Brown  bowed  again  and 
mumbled  the  usual  quantity  of  inarticulate 
nothings,  and  Miss  Julia  curtsied  and  blushed 
a  great  deal  more  than  anybody  in  the  room 
fancied.  "And  when  did  you  come  to  town? 
We  have  been  looking  for  you  for  some  days," 
continued  the  old  gentleman. 

The  deuce  you  have!  thought  Mr.  Brown, 
but  he  only  answered,  "We  had  a  very  tedious 
passage :  left  London  on  Wednesday,  and  only 
got  here  this  morning.  Four  days  of  most 
intolerable  bumping  about.  I  hoped  to  have 
been  here  on  Friday  night,  and  am  a  good  deal 
annoyed  at  the  detention,  as  my  stay  will  be 
proportionally  curtailed.  I  must  start  again, 
on  Saturday  next." 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  nonsense!  We  shan't  let  you 
off  for  a  month  to  come.  Shall  we,  Julia?" 

"  Oh,  you  are  too  kind! "  replied  Mr.  Brown, 
wondering  what  on  earth  all  this  cordiality 
meant.  "I  have  a  letter  for  you  here,"  ha 


246 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


continued,  drawing  one  from  his  pocket,  and 
presenting  it  to  the  old  gentleman. 

"Tut,  tut!  never  mind  the  letter!  The 
usual  thing,  I  suppose.  I'll  take  it  all  for 
granted,  and  take  you  as  I  find  you.  The 
son  of  my  old  friend  Brown  needs  no  introduc- 
tion. And  how  is  the  old  gentleman?  Hale 
and  lively,  eh?  The  same  jolly  fellow  as  ever, 
I  promise  you.  Always  the  life  and  soul  of 
his  friends  ever  since  1  knew  him,  and  that's 
not  yesterday ! "  And  so  on  the  old  gentleman 
rattled,  overwhelming  his  visitor  with  ques- 
tions which,  to  that  individual's  great  relief, 
he  generally  answered  for  himself. 

There  is  something  about  the  twilight  that 
tends  amazingly  to  sociality;  and  before  Mr. 
Brown  had  sat  an  hour,  or,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  half  that  space,  he  felt  as  much  at  his 
ease  with  his  new  acquaintances  as  if  he  had 
known  them  for  years.  The  old  gentleman 
was  a  frank,  chatty,  warm-hearted  kind  soul ; 
and  his  daughter's  soft  and  gentle  voice,  "that 
excellent  thing  in  woman,"  had  produced  an 
impression  upon  their  guest,  to  which  he  will- 
ingly resigned  himself.  Twilight  had  melted 
into  darkness  when  he  rose  to  depart. 

"  Come,  come!"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "it 
is  not  Scotch  hospitality  to  let  friend's  bairns 
off  in  that  way.  Julia,  dear,  ring  the  bell 
and  see  if  they  are  getting  supper  for  us.  Keep 
your  seat,  sir,  and  my  daughter  shall  let  you 
hear  what  we  barbarians  of  the  north  can  do 
in  the  musical  way,  while  the  lassie's  getting 
the  gas  lighted.  Something  short  and  sweet, 
Julia,  there's  a  dear." 

Having  seated  herself  once  more  at  the 
piano,  the  young  lady  ran  over  the  chords  with 
a  skilful  touch,  and  then  broke  into  a  symphony 
of  a  wild  and  mournful  character,  which  aptly 
ushered  in  the  melody  to  which  she  sang  the 
following  words: — 

SONO. 
"  Look  tip,  look  up,  my  bonny  May, 

And  cheer  me  wi'  your  winsome  e'e ! 
Though  I  look  sad,  and  little  say, 

Yet  dinna  hide  your  smiles  frae  me. 
"  The  sunny  rays  on  winter  days, 

Although  they  canna  melt  the  snaw, 
Yet  glad  creation  wi'  their  blaze. 

And  chase  the  settled  gloom  awa'. 
*'And  my  cauld  heart  that's  frozen  o'er, 

And  has  nae  joyanoe  o'  its  ain, 
Must  from  another's  glee  implore 
A  smile  to  light  its  weary  pain. 
"Look  up,  look  up,  my  bonny  May, 

And  cheer  me  wi'  your  winsome  e'e ! 
My  thoughts  are  wandering  far  away, 
I  fain  would  fix  them  all  on  thee." 


They  are  hazardous  things  these  twilight 
introductions.  A  man's  heart  may  be  gone 
before  he  knows  where  he  is.  The  calmness  of 
the  hour,  spreading  its  serenity  over  the  feel- 
ings, and  preparing  them  for  the  finest  impres- 
sions, the  half-murmured  tones,  and  the  unre- 
serve of  communication  which  is  imperceptibly 
produced  by  the  absence  of  the  garish  light, 
which,  with  its  bold  and  obtrusive  glare,  always 
seems  to  operate  as  a  curb  upon  our  impulses, 
have  a  strange  effect  in  quickening  the  imagi- 
nation and  affections.  In  such  a  situation  the 
presence  of  beauty  is  felt — it  needs  not  to  be 
seen.  An  unerring  instinct  tells  a  man  that 
the  voice  beside  him  is  not  more  sweet  than 
the  flush  of  the  cheek  is  beautiful,  and  the 
light  of  the  eyes  which  the  dimness  of  the 
hour  enshrouds  soft  and  soul-subduing.  So 
was  it  with  Mr.  Brown,  who  was  perfectly 
prepared  for  the  charms  which  the  light  of  the 
room  to  which  his  fair  hostess  conducted  him 
revealed.  As  he  gazed  on  her  he  felt  those 
resolutions  of  celibacy  with  which  young  men 
are  in  the  habit  of  deluding  themselves  oozing, 
like  Bob  Acre's  courage,  from  his  fingers'  ends 
even'  minute.  Meanwhile  he  sat  trifling  with 
a  piece  of  cold  salmon,  and  affecting  to  bestow  the 
most  earnest  attention  upon  the  old  gentleman's 
conversation,  while,  in  fact,  he  was  wandering 
in  dreams,  in  which  the  old  gentleman's 
daughter  was  the  principal  feature. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  his  host,  "you  make 
no  way  with  that  bit  of  grilse.  Why,  you  sit 
nibbling  away  at  it  for  all  the  world  like  that 
horrid  woman  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  the 
Ghool,  that  picked  grains  of  rice  with  a  needle 
when  other  folks  were  laying  in  a  hearty  meal, 
and  then  stole  off  to  the  churchyard  to  sup  on 
human  flesh,  instead  of  staying  at  home  with 
her  husband  and  family  like  a  decent  Moslem. 
Mind  you,  we  don't  allow  any  of  these  pranks 
here.  The  watchman  would  be  down  upon 
you  in  a  twinkling ;  so  take  your  supper  like 
the  rest  of  us,  and  don't  trust  to  picking  a 
bone  in  the  West  Kirk  or  the  Calton  on  your 
way  home." 

"Trust  me,  I'm  getting  on  famously,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Brown;  and,  bending  over  his  plate, 
he  began  to  work  away  with  his  fork  as  if  for 
very  life. 

"  Famously!  infamously,  you  mean!  If  you 
don't  get  on  any  better  than  you're  doing,  I'll 
set  you  down  for  sea-sick,  or  brain-sick,  or 
love-sick,  and  then  Heaven  pity  you!" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  make  yourself  easy !  Sea- 
sick I  have  been,  as  who  has  not  ?  according  to 
the  saying  of  the  poet — 'oh,  si  sic  omnia!' 
But  hitherto  I  am  not  conscious  of  being 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


247 


squeamish  in  either  of  the  other  ways;  and, 
to  prove  to  you  that  I  am  neither  damaged  in 
brain  nor  heart,  I  mean  to  make  an  attack  upon 
your  whisky-toddy  forthwith,  which  all  lovers 
and  madmen  have  forsworn  time  out  of  mind. " 

"Ay,  ay,  that's  all  very  true,  but  I  hardly 
know  whether  one  who  has  made  such  a  poor 
hand  at  the  platter  should  have  the  freedom  of 
the  cup.  We  can't  let  you  have  the  nectar  if 
you  won't  patronize  the  ambrosia.  What  do 
you  say,  Julia?  Do  you  think  we  may  trust 
Mr.  Brown  with  a  tumbler  to  himself?" 

"If  he  promises  first  to  make  it  strong 
enough,  not  otherwise." 

"  I  accept  the  conditions,  and  you  shall  be 
the  judge,"  replied  Brown,  and  proceeded  to 
mix  a  tumbler  of  that  compound  fluid  which, 
in  Scotland,  is  beloved  of  the  men,  and  has 
been  said  to  "charm  all  womankind."  The 
lady  pronounced  it  "pretty  well,  considering," 
and  her  father  said  he  had  hopes  they  would 
make  something  of  their  guest  after  all. 

The  conversation  then  turned  into  an  easy 
and  cheerful  strain  about  men,  manners,  books, 
and  things  in  general,  and  Mr.  Brown  felt 
strongly  impressed  with  the  conviction  that  he 
had  never  enjoyed  himself  so  much  anywhere 
in  his  life  before.  When  he  rose  to  depart  it 
did  not  require  much  solicitation  to  induce 
him  to  abandon  his  intention  of  leaving  Edin- 
burgh at  the  end  of  the  week.  There  were  so 
many  people  to  see,  so  many  places  to  visit, 
that  he  began  to  think  it  would  be  perfectly 
impossible  to  get  through  them  all  by  that 
time.  He  was  urgently  pressed  by  his  host  to 
make  head-quarters  of  his  house  during  his 
stay  in  Edinburgh,  and  with  a  warmth  which 
alone  would  have  made  it  impossible  for  Mr. 
Brown  to  refuse  it;  but  the  liking  which  he 
had  conceived  for  the  old  gentleman,  and  the 
still  warmer  feeling  which  he  entertained 
towards  his  daughter,  rendered  the  proposal 
a  most  acceptable  one.  He  returned  home  to 
his  h6tel  in  high  spirits,  and,  tumbling  into 
bed,  dreamed  all  night  of  a  parish  priest  and 
the  Elysian  fields.  ] 

Eight  or  ten  days  had  elapsed  since  my 
arrival  in  Edinburgh,  and  still  I  had  obtained 
no  tidings  of  my  portmanteau.  It  had  not 
made  its  appearance  at  the  steam-packet  office; 
and  accordingly  I  had  set  it  down  for  lost,  and 
my  namesake,  Mr.  John  Brown,  for  a  member 
of  the  swell  mob.  Trusting  to  obtain  the 
requisite  information  from  Mr.  M'Grugar,  I 
waited  patiently  for  that  worthy's  return.  At 
the  expiry  of  a  week  I  called  at  his  chambers, 
when  I  had  the  pleasure  of  another  interview 


with  the  young  gentleman  in  the  foul  linen,  in 
which  I  learned  that  Mr.  M'Grugar  had  re- 
turned, but  was  off  again  to  Forfarshire  to 
collect  Sir  Somebody  Something's  rents.  My 
friend  had,  of  course,  as  a  point  of  principle, 
forgot  to  make  any  inquiries  of  him  regarding 
Mr.  Smith;  and  I  was,  therefore,  just  as  wise 
on  that  point  as  before.  Mr.  M'Grugar,  how- 
ever, was  to  be  back  in  a  day  or  two,  and  a 
day  or  two  I  waited  accordingly.  I  called 
again  and  again,  but  the  mysterious  Mr. 
M'Grugar  was  always  either  in  Perthshire,  or 
Aberdeenshire,  or  in  the  isle  of  Sky,  called 
thither  on  particular  business,  and  I  had  well- 
nigh  given  up  all  prospect  of  his  return  as 
hopeless.  I  had  surveyed  the  streets  of  Edin- 
burgh like  a  police-inspector;  visited  the  lib- 
raries and  museums  till  the  attendants,  I  saw, 
began  to  eye  me  with  suspicion ;  stared  from 
the  Calton  Hill  till  I  was  tired,  and  grown 
familiar  to  the  box-keeper  at  the  theatre; — in 
short,  I  had  exhausted  all  the  sources  of 
amusement  which  the  northern  metropolis  af- 
fords, and  felt  a  good  deal  puzzled  how  to 
dispose  of  myself  with  any  sort  of  comfort  for 
a  few  days  more.  I  had  resolved  to  wait  that 
time  to  see  if  Mr.  M'Grugar  would  return,  as 
I  did  not  like  to  go  back  to  London  just  as  I 
had  left  it.  To  kill  the  time,  therefore,  I  made 
a  trip  into  the  Highlands,  and  returned  to  my 
old  quarters  in  the  Crown  Hotel  about  a  week 
after. 

"What's  this?"  said  I  to  the  waiter  the 
morning  after  my  return,  as  he  presented  me 
with  a  piece  of  paper  folded  lengthways,  in 
that  fashion  which,  to  an  observant  mind,  too 
surely  bespeaks  the  presence  of  a  tradesman's 
bill.  "  "To  a  double-breasted  coat,  claret - 
colourcd  best  mill  cloth,  £4,  14s.  6d.  Brass 
buttons  for  do.  5s.  To  a  white  satin  vest, 
fancy  sprig,  rolling  collar,  £1,  15s.'  Why, 
what  in  the  name  of  all  the  tailors  is  this? 
There  must  be  some  mistake.  These  things 
were  never  ordered  by  me.  Is  there  anybody 
waiting?" 

"  Yez,  zir.  The  man  that  brought  it's  be- 
low." 

"  Send  him  up  to  me." 

"Yez,  zir,"  replied  the  waiter,  and  dived 
out  of  the  apartment. 

"'A  white  satin  vest,  fancy  sprig,  rolling 
collar!  To  pair  trousers,  best  Saxony  black, 
£2,  2s. ;  straps  for  do.  Is!'  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  all  this?"  I  inquired  of  an  over-dressed 
clothescreen  who  had  just  shuffled  into  the 
room,  and  was  bowing  to  me  from  the  door 
with  a  pitiable  smirk  upon  its  face. 

"  It's  our  small  account,  sir — took  the  liberty 


248 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


— heavy  payments  to-day,  sir — feel  greatly 
obliged;"  and  having  unburdened  itself  oi 
this  announcement,  the  clothescreen  drew  itself 
up,  and  drew  down  at  the  same  time  a  pale 
blue  satin  vest  with  which  its  waist  was  en- 
circled. 

"I  see  it  is  an  account,  sir,  but  what  have 
I  to  do  with  it?  You  don't  expect  me  to  pay 
this,  do  you?" 

"Heavy  payments  to-day,  sir — feel  greatly 
obliged." 

"  Heavy  payments  be  hanged!  This  ia  no 
concern  of  mine.  Who  ordered  these  things?" 

"Who  ordered?"  tremulously  retorted  the 
screen.  "Why,  sir,  you  or-dered  them  your- 
self. Mr.  Brown,  I  believe,  sir — Mr.  John 
Brown.  You'll  see  it  at  the  top  of  our  little 
bill." 

"Well,  sir,  and  what  of  that?  Mr.  John 
Brown  I  certainly  do  see  at  the  top  of  this 
account,  but  that  doesn't  prove  it  to  be  mine. 
I  should  think  I'm  not  the  only  person  of  that 
name  in  the  world,  am  I?" 

"Certainly  not,  sir;  oh,  no,  sir,  I  should 
think  not!  but  you  certainly  ordered  these 
articles." 

"  I  order  them!     When,  where,  and  how?" 

"Last  week,  sir.  Our  Mr.  Stitchells  took 
your  measure.  You  remember  you  said  you 
wanted  them  in  a  particular  hurry,  and  we 
had  to  work  extra  hours  to  get  them  done. 
They  were  sent  home  on  Friday  last,  and  when 
we  sent  for  payment  next  day,  as  you  gave 
orders,  you  had  le-ft  town." 

"  There  must  be  some  mistake  here.  I 
never  ordered  these  things,  and,  what's  more, 
I  never  got  them.  As  to  paying  for  them, 
therefore,  it's  quite  out  of  the  question,"  I 
said,  returning  the  clothescreen  its  document. 

"  But,  sir "  remonstrated  the  screen. 

"Will  you  walk  out?"  I  exclaimed,  point- 
ing anxiously  with  the  index  finger  of  my 
right  hand  towards  the  door,  and  glancing  sig- 
nificantly at  the  window  at  the  same  time. 

"  But,  I  assure  you,  sir " 

"Will  you  go?" 

"  Very  sorry,  sir,  but  we  must  take  steps  to 
recover." 

"  Take  what  steps  you  like,  but  step  out  at 
once!"  and  I  slammed  the  door  in  the  clothe- 
screen's  face  with  such  vivacity  as  to  upset  it. 
I  heard  it  muttering  denunciations  as  it  picked 
itself  up  and  shuffled  along  the  passage,  while 
I,  chafing  with  impatience,  returned  to  the 
breakfast-table,  and,  pouring  the  contents  of 
the  teapot  into  the  slop-basin,  sweetened  them 
with  two  pats  of  butter,  poured  some  Harvev's 
sauce  over  the  whole  by  way  of  cream,  and 


only  discovered  the  mistake  when  the  first 
mouthful  had  passed  irrecoverably  over  my 
throat.  I  was  upset  for  the  day,  and  lay  idly 
on  the  sofa  revolving  with  considerable  earnest- 
ness all  the  different  methods  of  suicide  which 
I  had  ever  heard  of.  I  had  just  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  suffocation  by  the  smoke  of 
charcoal  was  the  neatest,  when  I  was  disturbed 
by  the  entrance  of  a  thin  weazon-faced  man, 
with  a  hard  stony  voice,  arrayed  in  a  suit  of 
faded  black,  very  white  in  the  seams,  and  very 
seamy  at  the  buttons.  He  was  accompanied 
by  a  stout,  flabby-cheeked  individual,  smelling 
strongly  of  snuff,  stale  ale,  and  rancid  cheese, 
and  habited  in  a  suit  of  indescribable  garments, 
over  which  was  a  shaggy  pea-jacket  not  any 
the  better  for  the  wear.  This  person  had  on 
a  broad-brimmed  hat,  unctuous  and  shining 
round  the  edges,  and  he  carried  a  most  seeming- 
lethal  stick  for  his  own  individual  security, 
and  the  annoyance  of  her  majesty's  lieges. 
Looming  in  perspective  followed  two  wholly 
unaccountable  characters,  very  dirty,  very 
shabby,  and  very  drunk.  These  gentlemen 
were  also  provided  with  sticks,  upon  which 
they  rested  their  right  arms  in  a  very  impres- 
sive manner. 

"Good  morning,  gentlemen,"  exclaimed  I, 
sitting  up  on  the  sofa,  and  surveying  this  quar- 
tette of  curiosities  with  no  slight  surprise, 

"Your  servant,  sir,"  said  the  man  with  the 
petrified  voice.  "  Sorry  to  trouble  you,  but 
business  and  pleasure  sometimes  draw  cross- 
ways,  you  know,"  and  the  wretch  grinned  at 
his  own  facetiousness.  I  asked  the  cause  of 
this  unexpected  visit. 

"  I  believe,  sir,  you  object  to  paying  this 
account,"  said  he  of  the  stony  voice,  showing 
me  the  tailor's  bill  of  the  morning. 

"  Unquestionably  I  do.  It  is  none  of  mine, 
and  pay  it  I  certainly  shall  not ! " 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,  because  I  always  pre- 
fer settling  these  matters  amicably.  I  think, 
Mr.  Brown,  you'd  better  pay  it  at  once,  and 
have  done  with  it,"  said  the  brute  in  a  confi- 
dential tone. 

"And  pray  who  is  it  I  am  indebted  to  for 
this  advice?" 

"You  will  find  my  name  there,  sir,"  said 
stony  voice,  coughing,  as  he  handed  me  a  card 
all  brown  and  dirty  about  the  edges,  with  the 
name  of  Mr.  Brail  Weazil,  solicitor,  upon  it. 

"Then,  Mr.  Weazil,  you  will  oblige  me  by 
keeping  your  own  breath  to  cool  your  own 
porridge,  as  you  say  in  Scotland,  for  I  do  not 
think  your  advice  is  very  likely  to  be  followed 
in  the  present  instance." 

"  Very  well,   Mr.  Brown,  my  instruction! 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


249 


are  peremptory,  and  I  must  proceed  as  law 
directs — as  law  directs,  Mr.  Brown.  Mes- 
sengers, do  your  duty." 

Upon  this  the  gentleman  in  the  pea-coat  ad- 
vanced, and  produced  a  warrant  to  arrest  Mr. 
John  Brown,  now  or  formerly  residing  in  the 
Crown  Hotel,  Edinburgh,  or  elsewhere  in  Scot- 
land, as  in  meditations  fugce,  at  the  instance 
of  Messrs.  Snipwell  and  Cabbitch,  tailors  and 
clothiers  in  Edinburgh,  to  whom  the  said  John 
Brown  was  said  to  be  indebted,  resting,  and 
owing  the  sum  of  £12,  13s.  llfr/.  Ever  since 
I  was  able  to  know  a  "hawk  from  a  hernshaw," 
I  have  had  a  horror  of  the  law.  I  was  bred  to 
it  originally,  but  left  the  profession  in  disgust; 
and  as  I  now  cast  my  eyes  over  the  warrant, 
grim  visions  of  bonds  of  caution  judicio  slsti, 
followed  up  by  replies  and  duplies  innumer- 
able, rose  up  before  my  mental  optics,  and  I 
resolved  to  pay  the  rascals  and  have  done  with 
them  at  once,  rather  than  be  pestered  with  an 
action  in  which  it  was  ten  chances  to  6'ne  they 
would  ultimately  succeed.  I  therefore  paid 
the  sum  under  protest,  and  bowed  Mr.  Brail 
Weazil  and  his  friends  out  in  as  summary  a 
manner  as  possible,  and  with  good  reason,  for, 
as  it  was,  I  had  to  burn  pastiles  in  the  room 
for  the  rest  of  the  day  to  dispel  the  odour  they 
had  left  behind  them. 

That  same  night  I  was  sitting  in  the  theatre 
when  my  attention  was  arrested  by  the  en- 
trance at  the  opposite  box  of  a  young  lady  of 
most  fascinating  appearance,  accompanied  by 
a  gentleman,  in  whom  I  thought  I  recognized 
my  namesake  who  had  haunted  me  ever  since 
I  left  London.  The  lady  was,  I  think,  one  of 
the  loveliest  creatures  I  ever  beheld.  She  had 
a  complexion  clear  and  glowing,  a  full  and 
finely-rounded  brow,  shaded  with  hair  dark 
and  glossy  as  the  raven's  wing,  a  mouth  around 
which  a  thousand  graces  hovered,  and  rich 
dark  eyes,  bright,  but  with  a  softness  in  their 
lustre.  When  she  turned  them  full  upon  her 
companion,  and  smiled  through  them  upon 
him  with  an  expression  of  confidence  and  affec- 
tion,— oh!  how  I  envied  till  I  almost  hated 
him.  How  it  happened  the  reader  may  guess, 
but  when  the  curtain  dropped  I  found  I  had 
a  very  vague  recollection  of  what  had  passed 
on  the  stage,  and  a  very  vivid  impression  with 
regard  to  the  lady  in  the  opposite  box.  By 
this  time,  too,  I  was  fully  satisfied  that  the 
gentleman  beside  her  was  no  other  than  my 
namesake ;  and  as  this  was  an  opportunity  for 
getting  scent  of  my  missing  portmanteau  which 
was  not  to  be  lost,  I  sent  the  box-keeper  to 
him  with  my  card,  and  requested  a  few  mo- 
ments' conversation. 


"  My  dear  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  after  we  had 
interchanged  the  usual  civilities,  "  I  hope  you 
got  your  portmanteau  again  quite  safe.  I  can 
assure  you  I  was  excessively  annoyed  at  the 
mistake. " 

"  That  was  the  very  thing  I  wished  to  see 
you  about.  I  have  not  seen  it  to  this  hour, 
and  am  horribly  put  about  for  want  of  it." 

"  Bless  me!  you  don't  say  so.  Why,  I  sent 
it  to  the  ofiice  the  very  day  I  landed,  thinking 
you  would  be  sure  to  ask  for  it  there." 

"  And  so  I  have,  but  the  people  tell  me  they 
have  seen  nothing  of  it." 

"The  deuce  they  do!  the  fellow  I  sent  with 
it  must  have  made  some  blunder.  I  daresay, 
now,  he'll  have  taken  it  to  the  wrong  ofiice. 
If  these  fellows  can  make  a  mistake,  they're 
sure  to  do  so.  Have  you  inquired  at  the  other 
company's  office?" 

"  No,  I  have  not ;  and  egad!  I  shouldn't  be 
at  all  surprised  if  you  were  right  in  your 
conjecture.  I  shall  inquire  to-morrow,  cer- 
tainly." 

"  Do,  like  a  good  fellow,  and  let  me  know. 
You'll  find  my  address  there,"  he  continued, 
handing  me  his  card;  "or  stay — where  do  you 
put  up?" 

I  told  him. 

"At  the  Crown?  That's  odd.  Why,  I  put 
up  there.  Well,  I'll  look  in  upon  you,  and 
hear  how  you  have  succeeded.  A  lady,  you 
see,  is  in  the  case,  and  then,  you  know — 

"  All  other  things,  of  course,  give  place." 

"Bye,  bye.  Au  revoir."  And  my  friend 
hurried  back  to  his  enviable  seat,  while  I  re- 
turned to  mine,  and  eyed  him  with  very  much 
the  same  class  of  emotions  as  may  be  supposed 
to  have  possessed  the  common  enemy  of  man 
as  he  watched  the  connubial  bliss  of  the  first 
husband  and  wife  of  whom  we  have  any  record. 
"Put  up  at  the  Crown!"  thought  I,  as  I 
walked  home.  He  it  was,  then,  whose  tailor's 
bill  I  had  paid.  I  should  try  to  get  that  out 
of  him  at  all  events. 

Next  morning  I  proceeded  to  the  ofiice  of 
the  other  steam-packet  company,  and  there, 
sure  enough,  my  portmanteau  was  brought  to 
light  from  under  a  huge  pile  of  packages  of  all 
descriptions,  battered,  bruised,  and  broken. 
My  letters  were  all  safe,  however,  and  that 
was  the  great  point.  There,  among  others, 
lay  the  important  document,  the  letter  to  my 
father-in-law  that  was  to  be,  with  the  address 
staring  me  in  the  face,  "David  Smith,  Esq., 
No.  —  North  Castle  Street."  North  Castle 
Street!  and  I  had  been  hunting  for  the  last 
three  weeks  after  a  Mr.  David  Smith  of  South 
Castle  Street.  I  wished  my  namesake  very 


250 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


especially  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and  the 
waiter  who  had  miscarried  my  portmanteau 
skewered  with  half-a-dozen  of  his  own  cork- 
screws. What  other  extravagances  I  may  have 
committed  in  the  first  gush  of  my  spleen  it  is 
hard  to  say,  but  I  have  a  distinct  recollection 
of  kicking  Boots  out  of  the  room,  and  dashing 
my  hat  to  pulp  against  the  bedpost,  in  the 
course  of  dressing  previous  to  making  a  call 
upon  the  veritable  Mr.  David  Smith,  whom  I 
found  seated  very  comfortably  in  his  library 
reading.  When  the  servant  announced  my 
name,  he  rose,  and  beckoned  me  to  a  seat  with 
rather  a  bewildered  air. 

"Mr.  John  Brown,  I  think  you  said?" 

"Yes,  the  same,  son  of  your  old  friend  of 
Dorset  Square,  who  has  armed  me  with  these 
credentials  to  you,"  I  replied,  handing  him 
the  letter. 

He  took  it,  and,  as  he  read,  I  never  saw  a 
man  look  so  thoroughly  perplexed  in  my  life. 
Every  now  and  then  he  cast  a  glance  at  me 
over  the  top  of  it,  and  then  resumed  the  per- 
usal, which  he  seemed  desirous  to  protract  as 
much  as  possible. 

"Dear  me,  this  is  extremely  awkward — 
extremely  awkward,  indeed.  A  most  unac- 
countable circumstance!"  muttered  the  old 
gentleman  in  a  sort  of  reverie.  "And  how 
was  your  father  when  you  left  him?  Well,  I 
hope?  Bless  my  soul,  what  is  to  be  done? 
How  it  could  have  happened,  I  really  cannot 
comprehend." 

Here  the  old  gentleman  rung  the  bell,  and 
gave  some  instructions  to  the  servant,  which 
I  could  not  hear.  He  then  entered  into  con- 
versation with  me,  but  in  a  manner  so  ab- 
stracted and  embarrassed,  that  I  was  convinced 
there  was  a  screw  loose  somewhere.  Shortly 
afterwards  a  lady  and  gentleman  entered  the 
room,  who  to  my  astonishment  turned  out  to 
be  my  namesake  and  the  lady  with  whom  I 
had  seen  him  the  night  before. 

"Julia,  my  dear,  there  has  been  some  very 
awkward  mistake  here.  I'm  afraid  you've 
married  the  wrong  man!" 

"Father!"  exclaimed  the  lady  in  surprise. 

"Sir!"  exclaimed  my  namesake  in  wrath. 

"  The  devil! "  exclaimed  I,  feeling  very  much 
as  if  I  were  shut  up  in  a  vapour-bath. 

"Are  you,"  continued  Mr.  Smith,  turning 
to  my  namesake,  "not  Mr.  John  Brown,  son 
of  Mr.  John  Brown,  Dorset  Square,  London?" 

"  Not  1 ; — I  am  Mr.  John  Brown,  indeed, 
but  my  father  is  Henry  Brown,  of  Thistlecrop 
Manor,  Bucks." 

"And  who  was  the  letter  from,  you  brought 
me?" 


"Old  Tom  Johnson,  of  Johnson,  Thomson, 
G-ibson,  and  Co.,  Lombard  Street,  who  was 
kind  enough,  knowing  I  had  no  acquaintances 
in  Edinburgh,  to  give  me  one  to  you." 

"Confound  my  stupid  old  head!  I  see  it 
all — I  see  it  all.  This  all  conies  of  my  not 
looking  at  that  letter.  I  was  expecting  my 
friend  here  at  the  time,  and  took  you  for 
him." 

"  I  am  selfish  enough  to  say,"  replied  my 
double,  "that  I  cannot  regret  the  mistake, 
since  it  has  gained  me  this  hand,  and  I  hope 
your  friendship." 

"  But  it  is  so  odd  that  you  should  have 
come  the  very  day  we  were  expecting  Mr. 
Brown  here,"  said  old  Smith,  who  evidently 
felt  extremely  at  a  loss  what  to  say.  "A  most 
remarkable  coincidence!" 

"  Very  remarkable  indeed,"  said  I,  feeling 
that  it  was  necessary  to  relieve  all  parties  from 
their  embarrassment  by  putting  the  best  face 
on  the  matter  possibl*.  "Very  remarkable, 
indeed,  considering  what  an  uncommon  name 
ours  is,  that  two  of  us  should  have  crossed  each 
other  in  this  way.  However,  I  am  used  to 
these  little  contretems.  I  have  twice  figured 
in  the  police  reports  as  the  perpetrator  of 
shocking  murders ;  been  found  drowned  in  the 
Regent's  Canal  some  six  times,  with  a  love- 
sonnet,  a  tooth-pick,  and  fourpence-halfpenny 
in  my  pocket;  have  eloped  thrice  with  Chancery 
wards,  and  made  various  desperate  attempts 
upon  her  Majesty's  person,  yet  here  I  am  as 
quiet  and  well-behaved  a  young  man  as  ever 
bore  the  name  of  Mr.  John  Brown.  My 
namesake  here  has  cost  me  a  good  deal  of 
bother  and  annoyance  one  way  or  another;  and 
oh!  unkindest  cut  of  all,  he  has  been  before- 
hand with  me  in  securing  a  charming  wife. 
However,  it  is  all  the  chance  of  war,  and  he 
shall  have  a  quittance  from  me  in  full,  pro- 
vided he  reimburses  me  for  this  tailor's  bill, 
which  I  have  had  to  settle  for  him." 

"My  marriage  suit,  by  all  that's  absurd! 
And  you  paid  this?" 

"Your  marriage-suit,  was  it?  Now  posi- 
tively this  is  too  bad.  It  is  adding  insult  to 
injury.  Not  to  be  content  with  robbing  me 
of  my  intended,  but  absolutely  to  nu&e  me 
pay  for  the  clothes  you  wedded  her  in.  Flesh 
and  blood  could  not  bear  it." 

"  Since  you  have  given  up  so  much  already, 
perhaps  you  will  surrender  this  point  too,  for 
my  sake!"  said  Mrs.  Brown.  "I  see  you 
will." 

There  was  no  resisting  that  smile.  I  gave 
in,  and  that  evening  saw  us  all  seated  in  a 
friendly  circle,  laughing  heartily  over  my  mis- 


WINSTANLEY. 


adventures.     Brown  and   I   have  been  good 
friends  ever  since.      He   is   the   happiest  of 
Benedicts,  and  I — am  still  a  bachelor.     Will 
any  benevolent  female  take  compassion  on 
JOHN  BKOWN? 


WINSTANLEY. 

A  BALLAD. 

[Jean  Ingelow  is  a  native  of  Ipswich.  In  1863  her 
first  volume  of  poems  appeared  ;  and  the  work  possessed 
so  much  matured  poetic  power,  that  it  won  for  her  at 
once  a  foremost  place  amongst  our  living  poets.  The 
Story  of  Dnom,  another  volume  of  poems,  increased  and 
established  the  reputation  she  had  already  won.  In 
America,  her  poems  are  said  to  be  even  mure  popular 
than  in  England.  She  has  also  written  several  interest- 
ing prose  works,  notably  ttudies  for  Stories;  A  Sister's 
By-Hours;  and  Stories  told  ti>  a  Child.  The  following 
quaint  and  pathetic  ballad  is  from  the  volume  contain- 
ing the  Stury  of  Doom  (Longmans  and  Co.,  London).] 

THE   APOLOGY. 

Quoth  the  cedar  to  the  reeds  and  rushes, 
'*  Water-grass,  you  know  not  what  I  do; 

Know  not  of  my  storms,  nor  of  my  hushes, 
And— I  know  not  you." 

Quoth  the  reeds  and  rushes,  "  Wind!  O  waken! 

Breathe,  O  wind,  and  set  our  answer  free, 
For  we  have  no  voice,  of  you,  forsaken, 
,  For  the  cedar-tree," 

Quoth  the  earth  at  midnight  to  the  ocean, 

' '  Wilderness  of  water,  lost  to  view, 
Nought  you  are  to  me  but  sounds  of  motion; 
I  am  nought  to  you." 

Quoth  the  ocean,  "Dawn!  O  fairest,  clearest^ 

Touch  me  with  thy  golden  fingers  bland; 
For  I  have  no  smile  till  thou  appearest 
For  the  lovely  land."' 

Quoth  the  hero  dying,  whelmed  in  glory, 

"Many  blame  me,  few  have  understood; 
Ah,  my  folk,  to  you  I  leave  a  story — 
Make  its  meaning  good." 

Quoth  the  folk,  "Sing,  poet!  teach  us.  prove  us; 

Surely  we  shall  learn  the  meaning  then: 
Wound  us  with  a  pain  divine,  O  move  us, 
For  this  man  of  men." 


Winstanley's  deed,  you  kindly  folk, 

With  it  I  fill  my  lay, 
And  a  nobler  man  ne'er  walk'd  the  world, 

Let  his  name  be  what  it  may. 


The  good  ship  Snowdrop  tarried  long, 

Up  at  the  vane  look'd  he; 
"Belike,"  he  said,  for  the  wind  had  dropp'd, 

"She  lieth  becalm'd  at  sea." 

The  lovely  ladies  flock'd  within, 

And  still  would  each  one  say, 
"Good  inercer,  be  the  ships  come  up?" 

But  still  he  answered  "Nay." 

Then  stepp'd  two  mariners  down  the  street, 

With  looks  of  grief  and  fear : 
"Now,  if  Winstanley  be  your  name, 

We  bring  you  evil  cheer ! 

' '  For  the  good  ship  Snoiodrop  struck  —she  struck 

On  the  rock — the  Eddystone, 
And  down  she  went  with  threescore  men, 

We  two  being  left  alone. 

"Down  in  the  deep,  with  freight  and  crew, 

Past  any  help  she  lies, 
And  never  a  ba!e  has  come  to  shore 

Of  all  thy  merchandise." 

"For  cloth  o'  gold  and  comely  frieze," 

Winstanley  said,  and  sigh'd, 
"For  velvet  coif,  or  costly  coat, 

They  fathoms  deep  may  bide. 

"O  thou  brave  skipper,  blithe  and  kind, 

O  mariners  bold  and  true, 
Sorry  at  heart,  right  sorry  am  I, 

A-thinking  of  yours  and  you. 

"Many  long  days  Winstanley's  breast 

Shall  feel  a  weight  within, 
For  a  waft  of  wind  he  shall  be  'fear'd 

And  trading  count  but  sin. 

"To  him  no  more  it  shall  be  joy 

To  pace  the  cheerful  town, 
And  see  the  lovely  ladies  gay 

Step  on  in  velvet  gown." 

The  Snowdrop  sank  at  Lammas  tide, 

All  under  the  yeasty  spray; 
On  Christmas  Eve  the  bri^  Content 

Was  also  cast  away. 

He  little  thought  o'  New  Year's  night, 

So  jolly  as  he  sat  then, 
While  drank  the  toast  and  praised  the  roast 

The  round-faced  aldermen, — 

While  serving  lads  ran  to  and  fro, 

Pouring  the  ruby  wine, 
And  jellies  trembled  on  the  board, 

And  towering  pasties  fine,— 


252 


WINSTANLEY. 


While  loud  huzzas  ran  up  the  roof 
Till  the  lamps  did  rock  o'erhead. 

And  holly  boughs  from  rafters  hung 
Dropp'd  down  their  berries  red, — 

He  little  thought  on  Plymouth  Hoe, 

With  every  rising  tide, 
How  the  wave  wash'd  in  his  sailor  lads, 

And  laid  them  side  by  side. 

There  stepp'd  a  stranger  to  the  board: 

"Xow,  stranger,  who  be  ye?" 
He  look'd  to  right,  he  look'd  to  left, 

And  "Rest  you  merry,"  quoth  he; 

"For  you  did  not  see  the  brig  go  down, 

Or  ever  a  storm  had  blown; 
For  you  did  not  see  the  white  wave  rear 

At  the  rock— the  Eddystone. 

"She  drave  at  the  rock  with  sternsails  set; 

Crash  went  the  masts  in  twain; 
She  staggor'd  back  with  her  mortal  blow, 

Then  leap'd  at  it  again. 

"There  rose  a  great  cry,  bitter  and  strong, 

The  misty  moon  look'd  out ! 
And  the  water  swarmed  with  seamen's  heads, 

And  the  wreck  was  strew'd  about. 

"I  saw  her  mainsail  lash  the  sea 

As  I  clung  to  the  rock  alone; 
Then  she  heeled  over,  and  down  she  went, 

And  sank  like  any  stone. 

"She  was  a  fair  ship,  but  all's  one! 

For  nought  could  bide  the  shock." 
'.'I  will  take  horse,"  Winstanley  said, 

"And  see  this  deadly  rock." 

"For  never  again  shall  barque  o'  mine 

Sail  over  the  windy  sea, 
Unless,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  for  this 

Be  found  a  remedy." 

Winstanley  rode  to  Plymouth  town 

All  in  the  sleet  and  the  snow, 
And  he  looked  around  on  shore  and  sound 

As  he  stood  on  Plymouth  Hoe. 

Till  a  pillar  of  spray  rose  far  away, 

And  shot  up  its  stately  head, 
Eear'd  and  fell  over,  and  rear'd  again : 

"  'Tis  the  rock !  the  rock  ! "  he  said. 

Straight  to  the  mayor  he  took  his  way, 
"Good  Master  IVHyor,"  quoth  he, 

"  I  am  a  mercer  of  London  town, 
And  owner  of  vessels  three,  — 


"But  for  your  rock  of  dark  renown, 

I  had  five  to  track  the  main." 
"You  are  one  of  many,"  the  old  mayor  said, 

"That  on  the  rock  complain. 

"An  ill  rock,  mercer!  your  words  ring  right, 
Well  with  my  thoughts  they  chime. 

For  my  two  sons  to  the  world  to  come 
It  sent  before  their  time." 

"Lend  me  a  lighter,  good  Master  Mayor, 
And  a  score  of  shipwrights  free, 

For  I  think  to  raise  a  lantern  tower 
On  this  rock  o'  destiny." 

The  old  mayor  laugh'd,  but  sigh'd  also; 

"Ah,  youth,"  quoth  he,  "is  rash; 
Sooner,  young  man,  thou'lt  root  it  out 

From  the  sea  that  doth  it  lash. 

"Who  sails  too  near  its  jagged  teeth, 

He  shall  have  evil  lot; 
For  the  calmest  seas  that  tumble  there 

Froth  like  a  boiling  pot. 

"And  the  heavier  seas  few  look  on  nigh, 
But  straight  they  lay  him  dead; 

A  seventy-gunship,  sir ! — they'll  shoot 
Higher  than  her  mast-head. 

"O,  beacons  sighted  in  the  dark, 

They  are  right  welcome  things, 
And  pitchpots  flaming  on  the  shore 

Show  fair  as  angel  wings. 

"Hast  gold  in  hand?  then  light  the  land, 

It  'longs  to  thee  and  me; 
But  let  alone  the  deadly  rock 

In  God  Almighty's  sea." 

Yet  said  he,  "Nay — I  must  away, 

On  the  rock  to  set  my  feet; 
My  debts  are  paid,  my  will  I  made, 

Or  ever  I  did  thee  greet. 

"If  I  must  die,  then  let  me  die 
By  the  rock,  and  not  elsewhere; 

If  I  may  live,  O  let  me  live 
To  mount  my  lighthouse  stair." 

The  old  mayor  look'd  him  in  the  face, 
And  answered :  "  Have  thy  way; 

Thy  heart  is  stout,  as  if  round  about 
It  was  braced  with  an  iron  stay : 

"Have  thy  will,  mercer!  choose  thy  men, 
Put  off  from  the  storm-rid  shore; 

God  with  thee  be,  or  I  shall  see 
Thy  face  and  theirs  no  more." 


WINSTANLEY. 


253 


Heavily  plunged  the  breaking  wave, 

And  foam  flew  up  the  lea, 
Morning  and  even  the  drifted  snow 

Fell  into  the  dark  gray  sea. 

Winstanley  chose  him  men  and  gear; 

He  said,  "My  time  I  waste," 
For  the  seas  ran  seething  up  the  shore, 

And  the  wrack  drave  on  in  haste. 

But  twenty  days  he  waited  and  more, 

Pacing  the  strand  alone, 
Or  ever  he  set  his  manly  foot 

On  the  rock— the  Eddystone. 

Then  he  and  the  sea  began  their  strife, 
And  work'd  with  power  and  might : 

Whatever  the  man  rear'd  up  by  day 
The  sea  broke  down  by  night. 

He  wrought  at  ebb  with  bar  and  beam, 

He  sail'd  to  shore  at  flow; 
And  at  his  side,  by  that  same  tide, 

Came  bar  and  beam  alsd. 

"Give  in,  give  in,"  the  old  mayor  cried, 

"Or  thou  wilt  rue  the  day." 
"Yonder  he  goes,"  the  townsfolk  sigh'd, 

"But  the  rock  will  have  its  way. 

"For  all  his  looks  that  are  so  stout, 

And  his  speeches  brave  and  fair, 
He  may  wait  on  the  wind,  wait  on  the  wave, 

But  he'll  build  no  lighthouse  there." 

In  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 

The  rock  his  arts  did  flout. 
Through  the  long  days  and  the  short  days, 

Till  all  that  year  ran  out. 

With  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 

Another  year  came  hi : 
"To  take  his  wage,"  the  workmen  said, 

"We  almost  count  a  sin." 

Now  March  was  gone,  came  April  in, 

And  a  sea-fog  settled  down, 
And  forth  sail'd  he  on  a  glassy  sea, 

He  sail'd  from  Plymouth  town. 

With  men  and  stores  he  put  to  sea, 

As  he  was  wont  to  do; 
They  show'd  in  the  fog  like  ghosts  full  faint — 

A  ghostly  craft  and  crew. 

And  the  sea-fog  lay  and  wax'd  alway, 

For  a  long  eight  days  and  more; 
"God  help  our  men,"  quoth  the  women  then; 

For  they  bide  long  from  shore." 


They  paced  the  Hoe  in  doubt  and  dread : 

"Where  may  our  mariners  be?" 
But  the  brooding  fog  lay  soft  as  down 

Over  the  quiet  sea. 

A  Scottish  schooner  made  the  port, 

The  thirteenth  day  at  e'en  : 
"As  I  am  a  man,"  the  captain  cried, 

"A  strange  sight  I  have  seen: 

"And  a  strange  sound  heard,  my  masters  all, 

At  sea,  in  the  fog,  and  the  rain, 
Like  shipwrights'  hammers  tapping  low, 

Then  loud,  then  low  again. 

"And  a  stately  house  one  instant  show'd, 
Through  a  rift,  on  the  vessel's  lee; 

What  manner  of  creatures  may  be  those 
That  build  upon  the  sea?" 

Then  sigh'd  the  folk,  "The  Lord  be  praised!" 
And  they  flock'd  to  the  shore  amain; 

All  over  the  Hoe  that  livelong  night, 
Many  stood  out  in  the  rain. 

It  ceased,  and  the  red  sun  rear'd  his  head, 

And  the  rolling  fog  did  flee; 
And,  lo !  in  the  offing  faint  and  far 

Winstanley's  house  at  sea ! 

In  fair  weather  with  mirth  and  cheer 

The  stately  tower  uprose; 
In  foul  weather,  with  hunger  and  cold, 

They  were  content  to  close; 

Till  up  the  stair  Winstanley  went, 

To  fire  the  wick  afar; 
And  Plymouth  in  the  silent  night 

Look'd  out,  and  saw  her  star. 

Winstanley  set  his  foot  ashore : 

Said  he,  "My  work  is  done; 
1  hold  it  strong  to  last  as  long 

As  aught  beneath  the  sun. 

"But  if  it  fail,  as  fail  it  may, 

Borne  down  with  ruin  and  rout, 
Another  than  I  shall  rear  it  high, 

And  brace  the  girders  stout. 

"A  better  than  I  shall  rear  it  high, 

For  now  the  way  is  plain, 
And  tho'  I  were  dead,"  Winstanley  said, 

"The  light  would  shine  again, 

"Yet,  were  I  fain  still  to  remain, 

Watch  in  my  tower  to  keep, 
And  tend  my  light  in  the  stormiest  night 

That  ever  did  move  the  deep; 


254 


THE  COUNTERPARTS. 


"And  if  it  stood,  why  then  't  were  good, 

Amid  their  tremulous  stirs, 
To  count  each  stroke  when  the  mad  waves  broke, 

For  cheers  of  mariaers, 

"  But  if  it  fell,  then  this  were  well, 

That  I  should  with  it  fall; 
Since,  for  my  part,  I  have  built  my  heart 

In  the  courses  of  its  wall. 

*'Ay!  I  were  fain,  long  to  remain, 

Watch  in  my  tower  to  keep, 
And  tend  my  light  iu  the  stormiest  night 

That  ever  did  move  the  deep." 

With  that  Winstanley  went  his  way, 

And  left  the  rock  renowned, 
And  summer  and  winter  his  pilot  star 

Hung  bright  o'er  Plymouth  Sound. 

But  it  fell  out,  fell  out  at  last, 

That  he  would  put  to  sea, 
To  scan  once  more  his  lighthouse  tower 

On  the  rock  o'  destiny. 

And  the  winds  woke,  and  the  storm  broke, 

And  wrecks  came  plunging  in; 
None  in  the  town  that  night  lay  down 

Or  sleep  or  rest  to  win. 

The  great  mad  waves  were  rolling  graves, 

And  each  flung  up  its  dead; 
The  seething  flow  was  white  below 

And  black  the  sky  o'erhead. 

And  when  the  dawn,  the  dull,  gray  dawn, — 

Broke  on  the  trembling  town, 
And  men  look'd  south  to  the  harbour  mouth, 

The  lighthouse  tower  was  down. 

Down  in  the  deep  where  he  doth  sleep 

Who  made  it  shine  afar, 
And  then  in  the  night  that  drown'd  its  light, 

Set,  with  his  pilot  star. 


Many  fair  tombs  in  the  glorious  glooms 

At  Westminster  they  show; 
The  brave  and  the  great  lie  there  in  state : 

Winstanley  Iwth  low. 


Winstanley's  lighthouse  of  wood  was  erected  1696- 
1700,  and  was  destroyed  in  1703.  Another  lighthouse 
of  wood,  with  a  stone  base,  was  built  between  1706  and 
1709,  and  was  burned  in  1755.  The  present  lighthouse, 
of  Portland  stone  and  granite,  was  constructed  by  Mr. 
Smeatou  iu  1757-59. 


THE  COUNTERPARTS. 

"  One  of  these  men  is  genius  to  the  other." 

Comedy  of  Errort. 

Messer  Basilic,  of  Milan,  M'ho  had  fixed  his 
residence  in  Pisa  on  his  return  from  Paris, 
where  he  had  pursued  the  study  of  physic, 
having  accumulated,  by  industry  and  extra- 
ordinary skill,  a  good  fortune,  married  a  young 
woman  of  Pisa,  of  very  slender  fortune,  and 
fatherless  and  motherless ;  by  her  he  had  three 
sons  and  a  daughter,  who  in  due  time  was 
married  in  Pisa;  the  eldest  son  was  likewise 
married,  the  younger  one  was  at  school;  the 
middle  one,  whose  name  was  Lazarus,  although 
great  sums  had  been  spent  upon  his  education, 
made  nothing  of  it;  he  was  naturally  idle  and 
stupid,  of  a  sour  and  melancholy  disposition; 
a  man  of  few  words,  and  obstinate  to  such  a 
degree,  that  if  once  he  had  said  NO  to  anything, 
nothing  upon  earth  could  make  him  alter  his 
mind.  His  father,  finding  him  so  extremely 
troublesome,  determined  to  get  rid  of  him,  and 
sent  him  to  a  beautiful  estate  he  had  lately 
bought  at  a  small  distance  from  towa.  There 
he  lived  contented,  more  proud  of  the  society 
of  clowns  and  clodpoles  than  the  acquaintance 
of  civilized  people. 

While  Lazarus  was  thus  living  quietly  in 
his  own  way,  there  happened  about  ten  years 
after  a  dreadful  mortality  in  Pisa;  people  were 
seized  with  a  violent  fever,  they  then  fell  into 
a  sleep  suddenly,  and  died  in  that  state.  The 
disease  was  catching:  Basilio,  as  well  as  other 
physicians,  exerted  their  utmost  skill,  as  well 
for  their  own  interest  as  the  general  good;  but 
ill  fortune  would  have  it  that  he  caught  the 
infection  and  died.  The  contagion  was  such 
that  not  one  individual  of  the  family  escaped 
death,  except  an  old  woman  servant.  The 
raging  disease  having  ceased  at  last,  Lazarus 
was  induced  to  return  to  Pisa,  where  he  in- 
herited the  extensive  estates  and  riches  of  his 
father.  Many  were  the  efforts  made  by  the 
different  families  to  induce  him  to  marry  their 
daughters,  notwithstanding  they  were  aware 
of  his  boorish  disposition;  but  nothing  would 
avail.  He  said  he  was  resolved  to  wait  four 
years  before  he  would  marry;  so  that  his  ob- 
stinate disposition  being  well  known,  they 
ceased  their  importunities.  Lazarus,  intent 
upon  pleasing  himself  alone,  would  not  associate 
with  any  living  soul. 

There  was,  however,  one  poor  man  named 
Gabriel,  who  lived  in  a  small  house  opposite  to 


THE  COUNTERPARTS. 


255 


him,  with  his  wife  dame  Santa.  This  poor 
fellow  was  an  excellent  fisherman  and  bird- 
catcher,  made  nets,  &c. ,  and  what  with  that, 
and  the  assistance  of  his  wife,  who  spun,  he 
made  shift  to  keep  his  family,  consisting  of 
two  children,  a  boy  of  five  and  a  girl  of  three 
years  old.  Now  it  happened  that  this  Gabriel 
was  a  perfect  likeness  of  Lazarus;  both  were 
red-haired,  had  the  same  length  of  beard,  every 
feature,  size,  gait,  and  voice  so  perfectly  alike, 
that  one  would  hare  sworn  they  were  twins; 
and  had  they  both  been  dressed  alike,  certainly 
no  one  but  would  have  mistaken  the  one  for 
the  other;  the  wife  herself  would  have  been 
deceived  but  for  the  clothes,  those  of  Lazarus 
being  fine  cloth,  and  her  husband's  of  coarse 
wool  of  a  different  colour.  Lazarus,  observing 
this  extraordinary  resemblance,  could  not  help 
fancying  that  there  must  be  something  in  it,  and 
began  to  familiarize  himself  with  his  society, 
sent  his  wife  presents  of  eatables,  wines,  &c., 
and  often  invited  Gabriel  to  dinner  or  supper 
with  him,  and  conversed  with  him.  Gabriel, 
though  poor  and  untaught,  was  shrewd  and 
sagacious,  and  knew  well  how  to  get  on  the 
blind  side  of  any  one;  he  so  humoured  him, 
that  at  last  Lazarus  could  not  rest  an  instant 
without  his  company. 

One  day,  after  dinner,  they  entered  into 
conversation  on  the  subject  of  fishing,  and  the 
different  modes  of  catching  fish,  and  at  last 
came  to  the  fishing  by  diving  with  small  nets 
fastened  to  the  neck  and  arms;  and  Gabriel 
told  him  of  the  immense  numbers  of  large  fish 
which  were  caught  in  that  manner,  insomuch 
that  Lazarus  became  very  anxious  to  know 
how  one  could  fish  diving,  and  begged  of  him 
to  let  him  see  how  he  did  it.  Upon  which 
Gabriel  said  he  was  very  willing,  and  it  being 
a  hot  summer's  day,  they  might  easily  take 
the  sport,  if  he  too  were  willing.  Having  rk.en 
from  table,  Gabriel  marched  out,  fetched  his 
nets,  and  away  they  went.  They  arrived  on 
the  borders  of  the  Arno,  in  a  shady  place  sur- 
rounded by  elders;  there  he  requested  Lazarus 
to  sit  and  look  on.  After  stripping,  and 
fastening  the  nets  about  him,  he  dived  in  the 
river,  and  being  very  expert  at  the  sport,  he 
soon  rose  again  with  eight  or  ten  fish  of  terrible 
size  in  his  nets.  Lazarus  could  not  think  how 
it  was  possible  to  catch  so  many  fish  under 
water;  it  so  astonished  him,  that  he  determined 
to  try  it  himself.  The  day  was  broiling  hot, 
and  he  thought  it  would  cool  him.  By  the 
assistance  of  Gabriel  he  undressed,  and  the 
latter  conducted  him  in  at  a  pleasant  part  of 
the  shore,  where  the  water  was  scarcely  knee- 
deep.  There  he  left  him  with  nets,  giving 


him  charge  not  to  go  farther  than  the  stake 
which  he  pointed  out  to  him.  Lazarus,  who 
had  never  before  been  in  the  water,  was  de- 
lighted  at  its  coolness,  and  observing  how  often 
Gabriel  rose  up  with  nets  full  of  fish,  bethought 
himself,  one  must  see  under  as  well  as  above 
water,  otherwise  it  would  be  impossible  to 
catch  the  fish  in  the  dark;  therefore,  in  order 
to  ascertain  the  point,  without  thinking  of 
consequences,  lie  put  his  head  under  water,  and 
dashed  forward  beyond  the  stake.  Down  he 
went  like  a  piece  of  lead;  not  aware  he  should 
hold  his  breath,  and  knowing  nothing  of  swim- 
ming, he  struggled  hard  to  raise  himself  above 
the  surface.  He  was  almost  stifled  with  the 
water  he  had  swallowed,  and  was  carried  aAvay 
by  the  current,  so  that  he  very  shortly  lost  his 
senses.  Gabriel,  who  was  very  busy  catching 
a  great  deal  of  fish  in  a  very  good  place,  did 
not  care  to  leave  it;  therefore  poor  Lazarus, 
after  rising  half-dead  two  or  three  times,  sunk 
at  last  never  to  rise  again.  Gabriel,  after  he 
had  got  as  much  fish  as  he  thought  would  do 
for  him,  joyfully  turned  round  to  show  Lazarus 
his  sport;  he  looked  round  and  did  not  see  him; 
he  then  sought  him  everywhere,  but  not  finding 
him,  he  became  quite  alarmed,  and  terrified  at 
the  sight  of  the  poor  fellow's  clothes  that  were 
laid  on  the  bank.  He  dived,  and  sought  the 
body,  and  ftmnd  it  at  last  driven  by  the  current 
on  the  beach ;  at  the  sight  he  almost  lost  his 
senses ;  he  stood  motionless,  not  knowing  what 
to  do,  for  he  feared,  that  in  relating  the  truth 
people  would  think  it  was  all  a  lie,  and  that 
he  had  drowned  him  himself,  in  order  to  get 
his  money. 

Driven  thus  almost  to  despair,  a  thought 
struck  him,  and  he  determined  to  put  it  in 
instant  execution.  There  was  no  witness  to 
the  fact,  for  every  one  was  asleep,  it  being  the 
heat  of  the  day;  he  therefore  took  the  fish,  and 
put  them  safe  in  &  basket,  and  for  that  purpose 
took  the  dead  body  on  his  shoulders,  heavy  as 
it  was,  laid  him  on  some  grass,  put  his  own 
breeches  on  the  dead  limbs,  untied  the  nets 
from  his  own  arms,  and  tied  them  tight  to  the 
arms  of  the  corpse.  This  done,  he  took  hold 
of  him,  dived  into  the  water,  and  tied  him  fast 
with  the  nets  to  the  stake  under  water.  He 
then  came  on  shore,  slipped  on  Lazarus'  shirt, 
and  all  his  clothes,  and  even  his  fine  shoes, 
and  sat  himself  down  on  a  bank,  determining 
to  try  his  luck  first  in  saving  himself  from  his 
perilous  situation,  and  next  to  try  whether  he 
might  not,  from  his  extreme  likeness  to  Lazarus, 
make  his  fortune  and  live  at  ease.  Being  a 
bold  and  sagacious  fellow,  he  immediately 
undertook  the  daring  and  dangerous  experi- 


256 


THE  COUNTERPARTS. 


ment,  and  began  to  cry  out  with  all  his  might 
and  main,  "Oh!  good  people,  help!  help!  run 
and  help  the  poor  fisherman  who  is  drowning." 
He  roared  out  so,  that  at  last  the  miller,  who 
lived  not  far  off,  came  running  with  I  know 
not  how  many  of  his  men.  Gabriel  spoke  with 
a  gruff  voice,  the  better  to  imitate  that  of 
Lazarus,  and  weepingly  related  that  the  fisher- 
man, after  diving  and  catching  a  good  deal  of 
fish,  had  gone  again,  and  that  as  he  had  been 
above  an  hour  under  water  he  was  afraid  he 
was  drowned;  they  inquiring  what  part  of  the 
river  he  had  gone  to,  he  showed  them  the  stake 
and  place.  The  miller,  who  could  swim  very 
well,  rushed  in  towards  the  stake,  and  found 
the  corpse,  but  being  unable  to  extricate  it 
from  the  stake,  rose  up  again  and  cried  out, 
"Oh!  yes,  he  is  dead  sure  enough,  but  I  cannot 
get  him  up  by  myself:"  upon  which  two  others 
stripped,  and  got  the  body  out,  whose  arms 
and  limbs  were  lacerated  by  the  nets,  which 
(as  they  thought)  had  entangled  him,  and 
caused  his  death.  The  news  being  spread 
abroad,  a  priest  came,  the  corpse  was  put  in  a 
coffin,  and  carried  to  a  small  church,  that  it 
might  be  owned  by  the  family  of  Gabriel. 

The  dreadful  news  had  already  reached  Pisa, 
and  the  unfortunate  wife,  with  her  weeping 
children,  came  to  the  church,  and  there  be- 
holding her  beloved  husband,  as  she  thought, 
she  hung  over  him,  wept,  sobbed,  tore  her  hair, 
and  became  almost  frantic,  insomuch  that  the 
by-standers  were  moved  to  tears.  Gabriel,  who 
was  a  most  loving  husband  and  father,  could 
scarce  refrain  from  weeping,  and  seeing  the 
extreme  affliction  of  his  wife,  came  forward, 
keeping  Lazarus'  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  his 
handkerchief  to  his  face,  as  it  were  to  wipe 
away  his  tears,  and  approaching  the  widow, 
who  took  him,  as  well  as  others,  for  Lazarus, 
he  said,  in  the  hearing  of  all  the  people,  "  Good 
woman,  do  not  give  way  to  such  sorrow,  nor 
weep  so,  for  I  will  not  forsake  you;  as  it  was 
to  oblige  me,  and  afford  me  pleasure,  that  he 
went  a  fishing  to-day  against  his  inclination, 
methinks  it  is  partly  to  me  he  owed  his  death, 
therefore  I  will  ever  be  a  friend  to  thee  and 
thine;  all  expenses  shall  be  paid,  therefore 
return  home  and  be  comforted,  for  while  I  live 
thou  shalt  never  want;  and  should  I  die,  I 
will  leave  thee  enough  to  make  thee  as  com- 
fortable as  any  of  thy  equals. "  Thus  he  went 
on,  weeping  and  sobbing,  as  if  regretting  the 
loss  of  Gabriel,  and  really  agonized  by  the 
distress  of  his  widow.  He  was  inwardly  praised 
by  all  present,  who  believed  him  to  be  Lazarus. 

The  poor  widow,  after  the  funeral  was  per- 
formed, returned  to  Pisa,  much  comforted  by 


the  promises  of  him  whom  she  considered  as 
her  neighbour  Lazarus.  Gabriel,  who  had 
been  long  acquainted  with  the  deceased's  ways, 
manners,  and  mode  of  living,  entered  Lazarus' 
house  as  if  the  master  of  it;  without  uttering 
a  syllable  ascended  into  a  very  beautiful  room 
tha't  looked  over  a  fine  garden,  pulled  out  of 
the  dead  man's  coat  he  had  on  a  bunch  of  keys, 
and  opened  several  chests,  and  finding  some 
smaller  keys,  he  opened  several  desks,  bureaus, 
money-chests,  and  found,  independent  of 
trunks  filled  with  cloth,  linen,  and  jewels, 
which  the  old  father  the  physician  and  brothers 
of  the  deceased  had  left,  nearly  to  the  value  of 
two  thousand  gold  florins,  and  four  hundred 
of  silver.  He  was  in  raptures  all  the  night, 
and  began  to  think  of  the  best  means  to  conceal 
himself  from  the  servants,  and  appear  as  the 
real  Lazarus.  About  the  hour  of  supper  he 
came  out  of  his  room,  weeping;  the  servants, 
who  had  heard  the  dreadful  situation  of  the 
widow  Santa,  and  that  it  was  reported  that 
their  master  had  partly  been  the  cause  of  the 
accident,  were  not  much  surprised  at  seeing 
him  thus  afflicted,  thinking  it  was  on  account 
of  Gabriel.  He  called  the  servant,  and  desired 
him  to  take  a  couple  of  loaves,  two  bottles  of 
wine,  and  half  his  supper  to  the  widow  Santa, 
the  which  the  poor  widow  scarcely  touched. 
When  the  servant  returned,  Gabriel  ordered 
supper,  but  ate  sparingly,  the  better  to  deceive 
the  servants,  as  Lazarus  was  a  very  little  eater; 
then  left  the  room  without  saying  a  word,  and 
shut  himself  up  in  his  own  room  as  the  deceased 
used  to  do.  The  servants  thought  there  was 
some  alteration  in  his  countenance  and  voice, 
but  attributed  it  to  the  sorrowful  event  that 
had  occurred.  The  widow,  after  having  tasted 
of  the  supper,  and  considering  the  care  that 
had  been  taken  of  her,  and  the  promises  made 
by  Lazarus,  began  to  take  comfort,  parted 
with  her  relations,  who  had  come  to  condole 
with  her,  and  retired  to  bed.  Gabriel,  full  of 
thought,  could  not  sleep  a  wink,  and  got  up 
in  the  morning  at  Lazarus'  usual  hour,  and 
in  all  things  imitated  him.  But  being  informed 
by  the  servants  that  Santa  was  always  in  grief, 
weeping  and  discomforted,  and  being  a  fond 
husband,  and  loving  her  tenderly,  he  was 
miserable  upon  hearing  this,  and  determined 
to  comfort  her.  Thus  resolved,  one  day  after 
dinner  he  went  to  her,  and  found  a  cousin  of 
hers  with  her.  Having  given  her  to  under- 
stand he  had  some  private  business  with  her, 
the  cousin,  knowing  how  much  she  was  indebted 
to  him,  and  her  expectations,  left  the  room, 
and  departed,  saying  he  begged  she  would  be 
advised  by  her  worthy  neighbour. 


THE  COUNTERPARTS. 


257 


As  soon  as  lie  was  gone  he  shut  the  door, 
went  into  his  room,  and  motioned  her  to  follow; 
she,  struck  with  the  singularity  of  the  case, 
and  fearing  for  her  honour,  did  not  know  what 
to  do,  whether  she  should  or  she  should  not 
follow;  yet  thinking  of  his  kindness,  and  the 
hopes  she  had  from  his  liberality,  and  taking 
her  eldest  son  by  the  hand,  she  went  into  the 
room,  where  she  found  him  lying  on  a  little 
bed,  on  which  her  husband  used  to  lie  when 
tired;  upon  which  she  started  and  stopped. 
Gabriel,  seeing  her  come  with  her  son,  smiled 
with  pleasurable  feelings  at  the  purity  of  his 
wife's  conduct;  one  word  that  he  uttered,  which 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  using,  staggered  the 
poor  Santa,  so  that  she  could  not  utter  a  syl- 
lable. Gabriel,  pressing  the  poor  boy  to  his 
breast,  said,  "  Thy  mother  weeps,  unaware  of 
thy  happy  fate,  her  own,  and  her  husband's." 
Yet  not  daring  to  trust  himself  before  him, 
though  but  a  child,  he  took  him  into  the  next 
room,  gave  him  money  to  play  with,  and  left 
him  there.  Returning  to  his  wife,  who  had 
caught  his  words,  and  partly  recognized  him, 
he  double-locked  the  door,  and  related  to  her 
every  circumstance  that  had  happened,  and 
how  he  had  managed  everything;  she,  delighted 
and  convinced,  from  the  repetition  of  certain 
family  secrets,  known  to  themselves  alone, 
embraced  him,  giving  him  as  many  kisses  as 
she  had  bestowed  tears  for  his  death,  for  both 
were  loving  and  tenderly  attached.  After 
reciprocal  marks  of  each  other's  affection,  Ga- 
briel said  to  her  that  she  must  be  perfectly 
silent,  and  pointed  out  to  her  how  happy  their 
life  would  hereafter  prove:  he  told  her  of  the 
riches  he  had  found,  and  what  he  intended  to 
do,  the  which  highly  delighted  her.  In  going 
out,  Santa  pretended  to  cry  on  opening  the 
street  door,  and  said  aloud,  that  she  might  be 
heard  by  the  neighbours,  "  I  recommend  these 
poor  fatherless  children  to  you,  signer."  To 
which  he  answered,  "Fear  not,  good  Mrs. 
Santa;"  and  walked  away,  full  of  thoughts  on 
his  future  plans. 

When  evening  came  on,  observing  the  same 
uniform  conduct  of  his  predecessor,  he  went  to 
bed,  but  could  not  sleep  for  thinking.  No 
Booner  did  the  dawn  appear  than  he  rose  and 
went  to  the  church  of  St.  Catherine,  where 
a  devout  and  worthy  pastor  dwelt,  and  who 
was  considered  by  all  the  Pisanians  as  a  little 
saint.  Friar  Angelico  appearing,  Gabriel  told 
him  he  wanted  to  speak  to  him  on  particular 
business,  and  to  have  his  advice  upon  a  very 
important  and  singular  case  that  had  happened 
to  him.  The  kind  friar,  although  he  did  not 
know  him,  led  him  into  his  room.  Gabriel, 


who  well  knew  the  whole  genealogy  of  Lazarus, 
son  of  Basilio  of  Milan,  related  it  fully  to  the 
friar,  likewise  the  dreadful  accident,  adding, 
tiiat  he  considered  himself  as  a  principal  cause 
of  it,  making  him  believe  it  was  he  who  induced 
the  unfortunate  man  to  go  a  fishing  against  his 
will;  he  represented  the  mischief  which  resulted 
from  it  to  the  widow  and  children  of  the  de- 
ceased, and  that  he  considered  himself  so  much 
the  cause  of  it,  and  felt  such  a  weight  on  his  con- 
science, that  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  though 
Santa  was  of  low  condition,  and  poor,  to  take 
her  for  his  wife,  if  she  and  her  friends  approved 
of  it,  and  to  take  the  children  of  the  poor  fisher- 
man under  his  care  as  his  own;  bring  them  up 
with  his  own  children,  should  he  have  any,  and 
leave  them  co-heirs  with  them ;  this,  he  said, 
would  reconcile  him  to  himself  and  his  Maker, 
and  be  approved  by  men.  The  holy  man,  see- 
ing the  worthy  motives  which  actuated  him,  ap- 
proved of  his  intention,  and  recommended  as ' 
little  delay  as  possible,  since  he  would  thereby 
meet  with  forgiveness.  Gabriel,  in  order  the 
more  effectually  to  secure  his  ready  co-opera- 
tion, threw  down  thirty  pieces  of  money,  say- 
ing that  in  the  three  succeeding  Mondays  he 
wished  high  mass  to  be  sung  for  the  soul  of  the 
deceased.  At  this  tempting  sight  the  friar, 
although  a  very  saint,  leaped  with  joy,  took 
the  cash,  and  said,  "  My  son,  the  masses  shall 
be  sung  next  Monday;  there  is  nothing  more 
to  attend  to  now  but  the  marriage,  a  ceremony 
which  I  advise  thee  to  hasten  as  much  as  thou 
canst;  do  not  think  of  riches  or  noble  birth; 
thou  art,  thank  Heaven,  rich  enough;  and  as 
to  birth,  we  are  all  children  of  one  Father; 
true  nobility  consists  in  virtue  and  the  fear  of 
God,  nor  is  the  good  woman  deficient  in  either; 
I  know  her  well,  and  most  of  her  relations." 
"Good  father,"  said  Gabriel,  "  I  am  come  to 
you  for  the  very  purpose,  therefore,  I  pray  you, 
put  me  quickly  in  the  way  to  forward  the  busi- 
ness." "When  will  you  give  her  the  ring?" 
said  the  holy  man.  "  This  very  day,"  he  an- 
swered, "if  she  be  inclined."  "Well,"  said 
the  friar,  "go  thy  ways,  and  leave  all  to  me; 
go  home,  and  stir  not  from  thence — these 
blessed  nuptials  shall  take  place."  Gabriel 
thanked  him,  received  his  blessing,  and  went 
home.  The  holy  father  carefully  put  the  cash 
in  his  desk,  then  went  to  an  uncle  of  Dame 
Santa,  a  shoemaker  by  trade,  and  a  cousin  of 
hers,  a  barber,  and  related  to  them  what  had 
happened ;  after  which  they  went  together  to 
Dame  Santa,  and  used  every  possible  argument 
to  persuade  her  to  consent  to  the  match,  the 
which  she  feigned  great  difficulty  in  consenting 
to,  saying  that  it  was  merely  for  the  advantage 
17 


258 


POLISH  SUPERSTITIONS. 


of  her  children  that  she  submitted  to  such  a 
tiling.  I  will  only  add,  that  the  very  same 
morning,  by  the  exertions  of  the  friar,  they 
were  married  a  second  time;  great  rejoicings 
took  place,  and  Gabriel  and  his  wife  laughed 
heartily  at  the  simplicity  of  the  good  friar  and 
the  credulity  of  the  relations  and  neighbours. 
They  happily  lived  in  peace  and  plenty,  pro- 
vided for  and  dismissed  the  old  servants;  were 
blessed  with  two  more  children,  from  whom 
afterwards  sprung  some  of  the  most  renowned 
men,  both  in  arms  and  letters.1 


HUMAN  LIFE. 

I  walk'd  the  fields  at  morning's  prime, 
The  grass  was  ripe  for  mowing : 

The  sky-lark  sung  his  matin  chime, 
And  all  was  brightly  glowing. 

"Arid  thus,"  I  cried,  "the  ardent  boy, 
His  pulse  with  rapture  beating, 

Deems  life's  inheritance  his  joy — 
The  future  proudly  greeting." 

I  wander'd  forth  at  noon: — alas! 

On  earth's  maternal  bosom 
The  scythe  had  left  the  withering  grass 

And  stretch'd  the  fading  blossom. 

And  thus,  I  thought  with  many  a  sigh, 

The  hopes  we  fondly  cherish, 
Like  flowers  which  blossom  but  to  die, 

Seem  only  born  to  perish. 

Once  more,  at  eve,  abroad  I  stray 'd, 
Through  lonely  hay-fields  musing ; 

While  every  breeze  that  round  me  play'd 
Rich  fragrance  was  diffusing. 

The  perfumed  air,  the  hush  of  eve, 

To  purer  hopes  appealing, 
O'er  thoughts  perchance  too  prone  to  grieve, 

Scatter'd  the  balm  of  healing. 

For  thus  "the  actions  of  the  just," 
When  memory  hath  enshrined  them, 

E'en  from  the  dark  and  silent  dust 
Their  odour  leave  behind  them. 

BERNARD  BARTON. 


1  From  Italian  Talet  of  Humour,  Gallantry,  and  Ko- 
rnu.nct. 


POLISH   SUPERSTITIONS. 

A  lady  told  my  fortune  by  the  cards  in  a 
very  interesting  and  lively  manner,  and  had 
talent  enough  to  fix  my  attention  in  spite  of 
good  sense ;  she  mentioned  that  the  Polanders 
are  universally  addicted  to  the  oracles  of  cards 
and  dice,  and  are  almost  all  fatality,  even  in 
their  more  serious  opinions.  A  gentleman  of 
that  nation,  who  was  formerly  in  the  habit  of 
visiting  at  her  house,  once  undertook  to  predict 
the  fortune  of  one  of  her  female  relations  by 
means  of  dice;  he  threw  them  in  a  particular 
way,  with  many  strange  ceremonies,  and  then 
remarked,  that  such  and  such  occurrences 
would  happen  to  her  in  such  and  such  a  time. 
He  was  extremely  ridiculed,  as  what  he  ha< 
foretold  came  scarcely  within  the  bounds  of 
possibility,  much  less  of  probability;  but  the 
subsequent  events  faithfully  verified  his  words. 
As  there  are  some  distinguished  names  both  in 
England  and  Portugal  mixed  up  in  the  above 
relation,  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  mention  the  par- 
ticulars, but  at  all  events  I  must  say  that  the 
Polander,  if  he  was  not  actually  an  adept  in 
the  occult  sciences,  had  at  least  a  very  keen  and 
extended  vision  with  regard  to  possible  politi- 
cal events;  the  fate  of  the  lady  depended  much 
upon  the  affairs  connected  with  the  Portuguese 
and  English  governments;  and  it  appears  to 
me  not  improbable  that  this  w'se  man's  mind 
foreboded  the  changes  which  have  so  lately  taken 
place  in  the  former,  although  they  were  then 
at  a  great  distance.  Among  other  supeirtitions 
to  which  the  Polish  nation  is  addicted,  I  may 
be  forgiven  for  relating  the  following,  as  its 
elegance  of  fancy  almost  redeems  its  absurdity. 
Every  individual  is  supposed  to  be  born  under 
some  particular  destiny  or  fate,  which  it  is  im- 
possible for  him  to  avoid.  The  month  of  his 
nativity  has  a  mysterious  connection  with  one 
of  the  known  precious  stones,  and  when  a  per- 
son wishes  to  make  the  object  of  his  affections 
an  acceptable  present,  a  ring  is  invariably 
given,  composed  of  the  jewel  by  which  the  fate 
of  that  object  is  imagined  to  be  determined 
and  described.  For  instance,  a  woman  is  bcrn 
in  January ;  her  ring  must  therefore  be  a 
jacinth  or  a  garnet,  for  these  stones  belong  to 
that  peculiar  month  of  the  year,  and  express 
"constancy  and  fidelity."  I  saw  a  list  of  them 
all,  which  the  Polander  gave  to  the  lady  in 
question,  and  she  has  allowed  me  to  copy  it, 
viz. : 

' '  January — Jacinth  or  garnet.  — Constancy 
and  fidelity  in  every  engagement. 


THE  SICK  CHILD. 


259 


"February — Amethyst. — This  month  and 
stone  preserve  mortals  from  strong  passions, 
and  insure  them  peace  of  mind. 

"March — Bloodstone. — Courage,  and  suc- 
cess in  dangers  and  hazardous  enterprises. 

"  April — Sapphire  or  diamond. — Repent- 
ance and  innocence. 

"May — Emerald. — Success  in  love. 

"June — Agate. — Long  life  and  health. 

"July — Cornelian  or  ruby. — The  forgetful- 
ness  or  the  cure  of  evils  springing  from  friend- 
ship or  love. 

"August — Sardonyx. — Conjugal  fidelity. 

"  September — Chrysolite. — Preserves  from 
or  cures  folly. 

"October — Aquamarine  or  opal. — Misfor- 
tune and  hope. 

"November — Topaz. — Fidelity  in  friend- 
ship. 

"December — Turquoise  or  malachite. — The 
most  brilliant  success  and  happiness  in  every 
circumstance  of  life;  the  turquoise  has  also 
the  property  of  securing  friendly  regard ;  as 
the  old  saying,  that  'he  who  possesses  a  tur- 
quoise will  always  be  sure  of  friends.'" 

From  MRS.  BAILIE'S  Li 


THE  SICK  CHILD. 

[John  Struthers,  born  in  East  Kilbride,  Lanark- 
ihire,  18th  July,  1776;  died  in  Glasgow,  30th  July, 
1853.  The  son  of  a  country  shoemaker,  he  began  the 
work  of  life  at  seven  years  of  age  as  a  herd-boy.  After- 
wards he  learned  his  father's  trade,  and  worked  at  it 
for  some  time.  But  from  childhood  onward  he  took 
advantage  of  the  few  opportunities  his  circumstances 
provided  for  improving  his  mind.  In  this  sturdy  en- 
de-ivour  to  educate  himself  he  was  assisted  by  his  own 
mother  and  by  the  mother  of  Joanna  Baillie.  In  1804 
ho  published  his  principal  poem,  The  Poor  Man's  Sab- 
bith.  which  gave  him  some  reputation.  He  was  sub- 
sequently employed  by  a  Glasgow  publishing  firm,  and 
edited  various  historical  and  poetical  works,  besides 
acting  as  corrector  of  proofs  for  the  press.  He  wrote 
essays  biographical  and  social — which  have  not  been 
published  in  a  collected  form — and  maintained  his  claim 
to  be  identified  as  a  poet  by  the  production  of  occasional 
verses.  At  the  age  of  seventy  four  he  was  obliged  to 
resume  his  original  craft,  and  earn  a  livelihood  by 
shoemaking.  The  efforts  of  a  few  private  friends  helped 
to  relieve  his  latter  years  of  the  most  pressing  difficul- 
ties. His  memory  is  worth  preserving  as  that  of  a 
representative  of  the  best  class  of  the  Scottish  pea- 
santry, and  as  that  of  a  poet  who  has  left  us  some  valu- 
able pictures  of  national  life.] 

I  passed  the  cot  but  yesterday, 
'Twas  neat  and  clean,  its  inmates  gay, 
All  pleased  and  pleasing,  void  of  guile, 
Pursuing  sport  or  healthful  toil. 


To-day  the  skies  are  far  more  bright, 
The  woods  pour  forth  more  wild  delight, 
The  air  seems  all  one  living  hum, 
And  every  leaflet  breathes  perfume. 
Then  why  is  silence  in  the  cot, 
Its  wonted  industry  forgot, 
The  fire  untrimmed,  the  floor  unred, 
The  chairs  with  clothes  and  dishes  spread, 
"While,  all  in  woeful  dishabille, 
Across  the  floor  the  children  steal? 
Alas !  these  smothered  groans !  these  sighs ! 
Sick,  sick  the  little  darling  lies ; 
The  mother,  while  its  moan  ascends, 
Pale,  o'er  the  cradle,  weeping,  bends; 
And,  all  absorbed  in  speechless  woe, 
The  father  round  it  paces  slow. 
Behind  them  close,  with  clasped  hands, 
The  kindly  village  matron  stands, 
Bethinking  what  she  shall  direct; 
For  all  night  long,  without  effect, 
Her  patient  care  has  been  applied, 
A  ud  all  her  various  simples  tried, 
And  glad  were  she  could  that  be  found 
"Would  bring  the  baby  safely  round. 

Meanwhile,  the  little  innocent, 
To  deeper  moans  gives  ampler  vent, 
Lifts  up  its  meek  but  burdeu'd  eye, 
As  if  to  say,  "  Let  me  but  die, 
For  me  your  cares,  your  toils  give  o'er, 
To  die  in  peace,  I  ask  no  more." 

But  who  is  there  with  aspect  kind, 
Where  faith,  and  hope,  and  love  are  joined, 
And  pity  sweet?    The  man  of  God, 
Who  soothes,  exhorts,  in  mildest  mood, 
And  to  the  pressure  of  the  case 
Applies  the  promises  of  grace — • 
Then  lifts  his  pleading  voice  and  eye 
Tc  Him  enthron'd  above  the  sky, 
W  ao  compass'd  once  with  pains  and  fears, 
Utter'd  strong  cries,  wept  bitter  tears — 
And  hence  the  sympathetic  glow 
He  feels  for  all  his  people's  woe — 
For  health  restored,  and  length  of  days, 
To  the  sweet  babe  he  humbly  prays; 
But  'specially  that  he  may  prove 
An  heir  of  faith,  a  child  of  love; 
That,  when  withdrawn  from  mortal  eyes, 
May  bloom  immortal  in  the  skies; — 
And  for  the  downcast  parent  pair, 
Beneath  this  load  of  grief  and  care 
That  grace  divine  may  bear  them  up, 
And  sweeten  even  this  bitter  cup, 
Which  turns  to  gall  their  present  hopes, 
With  consolation's  cordial  drops. 
He  pauses — now  the  struggle's  done, 
His  span  is  closed — his  race  is  run, 
No  —yet  he  quivers — Ah  !  that  thrill ! 
That  wistful  look — Ah !  now  how  still. 


260 


SELLING  FLOWERS. 


But  yesterday  the  cot  was  gay, 
With  smiling  virtue's  seraph  train! 
There  sorrow  dwells  with  death  to-day, 
When  shall  the  cot  be  gay  again  ? 


SELLING  FLOWERS. 

BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF    "  EAST   LYNNE." 

[Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  born  at  Worcester  about  1820. 
She  maintains  a  high  place  amongst  the  most  popular 
of  our  living  novelists.  Her  first  work  was  Dantsbwy 
House,  which  gained  the  prize  of  £100  offered  by  the 
Scottish  Temperance  League  for  the  best  tale  illustra- 
tive of  the  evils  of  drunkenness.  East  Lynne  was  her 
next  work,  and  won  enduring  popularity  for  the  author. 
After  it  came,  Mrs.  Halliburton' s  Troubles;  The  Shadow 
of  Asklydyat ;  The  Channings ;  Roland  Yorlce;  Mildred 
Arke.ll;  Oswald.  Cray:  George  Canterbury's  Will;  Betsy 
Raiie,  and  others.  In  1866  Mrs.  Wood  became  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  A  rgosy  magazine,  to  which  she  contributes 
largely.  It  is  from  that  magazine  (June,  1868;  we  take 
the  following  pathetic  sketch— it  would  be  unfair  to 
call  it  a  tale,  it  is  so  pitilessly  true  to  the  life  led  by 
many  of  the  poor  in  the  metropolis.  Cheap  editions  of 
Mrs.  Wood's  novels  have  been  published  by  Beutley  and 
Son.] 

On  a  certain  day  in  the  first  week  in  April, 
1867,  there  stood  a  man  against  the  wall  that 
bounds  the  north-west  corner  of  the  Regent's 
Park.  It  was  a  bitter  cold  day,  in  spite  of  the 
sun  shining  with  full  force  and  warmth  on 
that  particular  spot,  for  the  cruel  north-east 
wind  was  keen  and  sharp,  cutting  its  way 
into  delicate  frames.  The  man  looked  like  a 
countryman,  inasmuch  as  he  wore  what  country 
people  call  the  smock-frock;  he  was  a  tall,  dark- 
haired  man,  about  forty  five,  powerfully  made, 
but  very  thin,  with  a  pale  and  patient  face. 
Resting  on  the  ground  by  his  side  was  a  high 
round  hamper — or,  as  he  called  it,  a  kipe — 
containing  roots  of  flowers  in  blossom,  prim- 
roses chiefly,  a  few  violets,  and  a  green  creep- 
ing plant  or  two. 

The  man  was  not  a  countryman  by  habit 
now:  he  had  become  acclimatized  to  London. 
He  had  been  up  by  daylight  that  morning  and 
on  his  way  to  the  woods,  miles  distant,  in  search 
of  these  flowers.  He  dug  up  the  roots  carefully, 
neatly  enveloped  them  in  moss,  obtained  close 
by,  tying  it  round  with  strips  of  long  dried 
grass.  It  was  nearly  ten  before  the  work  was 
over  and  the  roots  packed,  blossoms  upwards, 
in  the  kipe,  which  was  three  parts  filled  with 
mould.  Lifting  it  up,  he  toiled  back  to  Lon- 
don with  it  and  took  up  his  standing  on  the 
broad  pavement  against  this  high  wall — which 
seemed  as  likely  a  spot  for  customers  as  any 
other.  The  clock  of  St.  John's  Church  oppo- 


site to  him  was  striking  twelve  when  he  put 
down  his  load. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  enough,  and  artistically 
arranged:  the  blue  violets  in  the  centre,  the 
delicate  primroses  around  them,  the  green 
creeping  plants,  drooping  their  branches 
gracefully,  encircling  all.  Did  the  spring- 
flowers  remind  any  of  the  passers-by  of  their 
spring? — of  the  green  lanes,  the  mossy  dells 
which  they  had  traversed  in  that  gone-by  time, 
and  plucked  these  flowers  at  will  ?  If  so,  they 
had  apparently  no  leisure  to  linger  over  the 
reminiscence,  but  went  hurrying  on.  The  man 
did  not  ask  any  one  to  buy :  he  left  it  to  them. 

The  hours  went  on.  At  three  o'clock  he 
had  not  sold  a  single  root.  He  stood  there 
silently ;  waiting,  waiting;  his  wistful  face  less 
hopeful  than  at  first.  He  did  not  much  expect 
gentlemen  to  purchase,  but  he  did  think  ladies 
would.  They  swept  by  in  numbers,  well-dressed 
women  in  silk  and  velvet,  a'nd  gay  bonnets 
gleaming  in  the  sunny  day ;  some  were  in  car- 
riages, more  on  foot;  but  they  passed  him. 
Occasional  glances  were  cast  on  the  flowers; 
one  lady  leaned  close  to  her  carnage-window 
and  gazed  at  them  until  she  was  beyond  view; 
two  or  three  had  stopped  with  a  remark  or 
question ;  but  they  did  not  buy. 

As  the  clock  struck  three  the  man  took  a 
piece  of  bread  from  his  pocket  and  ate  it, 
going  over  to  the  cab-stand  afterwards  for  a 
drink  of  water.  He  had  eaten  another  meal 
while  he  was  getting  up  the  roots  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  washed  it  down  with  water  from  a 
neighbouring  rivulet.  Better  water  that  than 
this. 

"  Not  much  luck  this  afternoon,  mate,  eh?" 
remarked  a  cab-driver,  who  had  been  sitting  for 
some  time  on  the  box  of  his  four-wheeled  cab. 

"No,"  replied  the  man,  going  back  to  his 
post. 

Almost  immediately  the  wide  path  before 
him  seemed  crowded.  Two  parties,  acquaint- 
ances apparently,  had  met  from  opposite  ways. 
They  began  talking  eagerly:  of  a  ball  they 
were  to  be  at  that  night;  of  a  missionary  meet- 
ing to  be  attended  on  the  morrow;  of  various 
plans  and  projects.  One  lady,  who  had  a  little 
girl's  band  in  hers,  held  out  a  beautiful  bou- 
quet. 

"  I  have  been  all  the  way  into  Baker  Street 
to  get  it,"  she  said.  "Is  it  not  lovely?  It 
was  only  seven-and-sixpence.  I  felt  inclined 
to  take  a  cab  and  bring  it  home,  lest  the  hot 
sun  should  injure  it." 

A  good  deal  more  talking,  the  man  behind 
standing  unnoticed,  and  they  parted  to  go  on 
their  several  ways.  But  the  little  girl  had 


SELLING   FLOWERS. 


261 


turned  to  the  kipe  of  flowers  and  her  feet  were 
glued  to  the  pavement.  The  flaxen  hair  flow- 
ing on  her  shoulders  was  tied  with  blue  ribbons, 
the  colour  of  her  eyes. 

"  Mamma,  buy  me  a  bouquet." 

The  lady,  then  arrested,  turned  round  and 
cast  a  glance  on  the  flowers.  "Nonsense," 
she  answered  rather  crossly. 

"But  they  are  primrose  flowers,  mamma; 
do  buy  me  some." 

"Don't  be  tiresome,  Mina;  those  are  roots, 
not  flowers;  come  along;  I  have  no  time  to 
spare." 

She  made  quite  a  dazzling  vision  in  the  poor 
man's  sight  as  she  went  away  with  the  child; 
the  silk  gown  of  bright  lavender,  the  white 
lining  of  the  black  velvet  mantle,  as  the  wind 
blew  back  its  corners,  and  the  monstrous  gold 
net  stuffed  with  yellowish  hair  that  stood  out 
from  her  head  behind,  and  glittered  in  the  sun. 
How  fashionable  it  all  was,  and  free  from  care, 
and  indicative  of  wealthy  ease!  but  you  must 
not  blame  the  man  if  life  did  seem  to  him  for 
uie  moment  to  be  dealt  out  unequally.  Seven- 
and-sixpence  for  a  bouquet,  and  a  cab  to  carry 
it  home  in! 

He  did  not  see  a  lady  crossing  the  road  until 
she  stood  before  him.  A  quiet,  gentle  lady 
this,  very  much  lacking  in  fashion,  especially 
in  the  matter  of  back  hair. 

"Are  they  roots  or  flowers?"  she  asked. 

"Roots."  His  natural  civility  had  gone 
out  of  him;  a  feeling  of  injustice  was  chafing 
both  temper  and  spirit. 

"  Roots  are  of  no  use  to  me,"  she  observed, 
thinking  him  very  surly.  "You  do  not  seem 
to  have  sold  many." 

"  I  have  sold  none.  I  had  a  walk  of  some 
hours  to  get  the  roots;  I've  stood  here  in  this 
blessed  spot  since  twelve  o'clock;  and  there's 
the  kipe  as  I  set  it  down. " 

"Kipe!  he  is  country-bred,"  thought  the 
lady.  As  she  was. 

"  The  ladies  in  their  grand  dresses  have  been 
going  by  a-foot  and  in  their  carriages,  and  not 
me  of  them  has  offered  to  lay  out  a  penny  on 
me.  They'd  go  into  a  shop  and  give  half-a- 
crown  for  a  pot  o'  flowers;  they'll  give  their 
seven-and-sixpence  for  their  bouquets:  but  they 
won't  help  a  poor  man,  trying  to  get  a  living." 

He  spoke  almost  fiercely,  not  looking  at  her, 
but  straight  before  him.  This  sort  of  thing  is 
not  pleasant,  and  the  lady  prepared  to  depart. 
Feeling  in  her  pocket  for  some  halfpence,  she 
found  a  penny  only,  and  would  have  given 
that  to  him. 

"No;  T  will  not  take  it.  If  I  can't  earn  an 
honest  penny,  I'll  not  take  one  in  charity." 


She  walked  on,  glad  to  leave  the  man  and 
his  incivility.  Besides,  she  had  just  before 
been  beset  by  the  rude  girls  that  congregate  in 
those  as  in  other  parts  of  London,  importuning 
her  to  buy  flowers.  This  man  was  different. 
She  began  to  think — well,  of  many  things; 
and  she  went  back  to  him  with  a  sixpence  in 
her  hand;  the  face  looked  stern  yet:  but  it  was 
an  honest  face  and  very  pale. 

"  Will  you  take  this?"  she  gently  asked, 
holding  out  the  sixpence. 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  no.  I'll  not 
take  money  without  giving  goods  in  return. 
'Twould  be  as  good  as  a  fraud." 

"But  they  are  roots:  and  I  can't  carij 
them." 

No  answer. 

"  How  do  you  sell  them?" 

"  Threepence  a-piece." 

"  Have  you  any  children?" 

"Y — es."  The  hesitation  was  caused  by 
his  innate  truthfulness.  He  had  but  one 
child,  but  his  temper  just  now  would  not 
allow  him  to  explain. 

"  Then  let  me  buy  two  of  these  roots,  and 
you  keep  them  and  give  the  flowers  to  your 
children  when  you  get  home." 

"No,  ma'am.     No." 

"  Well,  then,  give  me  one  cf  the  primrose- 
roots." 

She  was  about  to  pluck  the  flowers  from  it, 
as  being  then  more  convenient  to  carry,  when 
he  interposed  to  stop  it,  his  voice  betraying 
strange  feeling. 

"Oh,  don't  do  that!  'Twould  be  a'most  a 
sin." 

It  was  evident  that  he  loved  earth's  produc- 
tions. And  then  she  remarked  that  it  was 
done  up  so  neatly  and  carefully  in  the  dry 
moss,  that  no  inconvenience  could  arise  from 
carrying  it.  Dropping  the  sixpence  into  his 
hand,  she  went  away  quickly,  lest  his  honesty 
should  break  out  again,  and  insist  on  return- 
ing threepence.  Perhaps  it  was  only  lack  of 
change  that  caused  him  not  to  do  it. 

He  waited  on.  Presently  a  woman  in  a  red 
shawl  came  by,  stopped  at  sight  of  the  prim- 
roses, scanned  them  critically,  and  spoke. 
"  What's  the  price  of  'em,  master?" 

"  Threepence  a  root." 

"  Threepence  a  root!  What,  for  them  messes 
o'  primroses?" 

"I've  been  far  enough  to  get  'em." 

"Let's  look  at  one." 

He  put  one  into  her  hand,  and  she  turned  it 
about  in-all  directions,  as  if  fearing  imposture. 
Apparently  she  satisfied  herself. 

"  If  you'll  let  me  have  six  of  these  for  a 


262 


SELLING  FLOWEKS. 


shilling,  I'll  take  'em.  I've  got  half-a-dozen 
window -pots  at  home,  waiting  to  be  filled  with 
eome'at  or  other." 

He  did  not  think  it  well  to  refuse  the  offer, 
considering  how  slow  the  day's  sale  had  been. 
She  held  the  six  roots  across  her  arm,  resting 
against  the  red  shawl. 

"  You'll  give  me  one  in?"  she  said,  keeping 
the  shilling  in  her  hand.  She  must  have  had 
a  conscience,  that  woman! 

"Xo. "  Relinquishing  the  shilling  she  de- 
parted with  her  purchases.  Two  or  three  stray 
buyers  came  up  after  that,  each  one  for  a  soli- 
tary root  of  either  primroses  or  violets.  One 
gentleman,  who  got  off  an  Atlas  omnibus  close 
by,  appeared  t.)  regard  his  standing  there  in 
the  light  of  a  personal  grievance,  and  asked 
him  in  a  sharp,  implacable  voice  why  he  didn't 
go  to  work  instead  of  skulking  there  with 
flowers,  a  great  strong,  lazy  fellow  like  him! 
He  stamped  on,  not  waiting  for  an  answer; 
upon  which  another  gentleman  who  had  heard 
the  reproach  came  up  and  bought  a  root  of  vio- 
lets, paying  for  it  with  a  threepenny  piece. 
And  so,  with  one  thing  and  another,  the  day 
wore  on  to  twilight. 

He  took  up  his  hamper  then  and  went  away 
towards  home,  seeking  to  sell  on  his  road.  But 
luck  was  not  with  him. 

Home!  It  was  situated  in  the  heart  of  Lon- 
don, and  had  best  be  indicated  as  lying  some- 
where between  Oxford  Street  and  the  Strand. 
The  locality  was  occasionally  described  as 
"awful"  by  those  who  knew  it:  not  in  refer- 
ence to  the  people,  but  to  the  dwellings  they 
lived  in.  As  a  rule,  thieves  and  pickpockets 
did  not  inhabit  there,  only  the  poorest  of  the 
labouring  poor,  quite  the  one  half  of  whom 
were  out  of  work  six  months  in  the  year  on  an 
average.  As  the  man  went  down  a  close  street, 
where  men  congregated  in  rags,  holding  pipes 
in  their  mouths,  and  women  stood  about  with 
hanging  hair  and  shrill  tongues,  he  turned 
into  a  miserable  greengrocery  shed.  The  mas- 
ter, weighing  out  twopennyworth  of  coal  for  a 
customer,  looked  round. 

"  Is  it  you,  Sale?    Had  a  good  day  on't?" 

"  No.  You'll  let  me  leave  the  kipe  here  for 
the  night.  They'd  wither  in  my  place." 

"Leave  it,  and  welcome." 

Putting  the  kipe  into  a  corner,  contriving  to 
cover  its  remaining  flowers  so  that  the  coal 
dust  should  not  altogether  blacken  them, 
Richard  Sale  went  on,  down  the  street.  Two 
shillings  of  the  money  he  had  taken  must  be 
paid  for  rent;  there  was  no  grace;  and  it  left 
him  tenpence  to  spend. 

He  went  into  a  shop  and  bought  that  dainty 


with  the  poor,  a  "saveloy,"  and  a  loaf  of  bread. 
He  bought  a  pennyworth  of  milk,  a  large  quan- 
tity considering  his  means;  and  he  bought  a 
modicum  of  tea  and  sugar.  There  was  a  sick 
child  at  home,  always  thirsty,  and  they  had 
said  at  the  dispensary  that  milk  was  good  for 
him.  And  now,  admire  the  enduring  patience 
of  this  man.  He  had  gone  without  food  all 
day,  except  the  two  slices  of  bread,  lest  he 
might  not  have  enough  money  left  to  make  a 
meal  with  his  boy  in  the  evening.  Long  fast- 
ing does  not  seem  so  hard  to  them  as  it  would 
to  us,  who  live  regularly:  they  have  to  fast  so 
often.  Richard  Sale's  later  history  is  but  that 
of  many.  He  had  been  attracted  to  London 
from  his  country  home  by  greater  wages  earned 
there,  and  for  some  time  did  well.  But  mis- 
fortune came  to  him  in  the  shape  of  rheumatic 
fever;  it  lasted  long  enough  to  sell  him  up, 
and  turn  him  out  with  his  wife  and  children, 
when  he  was  still  too  weak  to  work.  He  never 
recovered  position — if  that  word  may  be  applied 
to  a  daily  labourer.  The  fingers  of  one  hand 
were  considerably  weakened,  the  joints  stiff, 
and  for  four  years  he  had  to  get  a  living  how 
he  could,  at  odd  jobs;  at  buying  things  to  sell 
again;  or,  as  he  had  been  doing  to-day,  walk- 
ing out  miles  to  get  up  roots,  or  cress,  and 
sell :  keeping  his  honesty  always,  and  self-deny- 
ing to  the  end. 

You  never  saw  or  dreamed  of  such  a  place  as 
the  one  he  finally  turned  into.  It  was  not  fit 
for  human  beings  to  dwell  in.  A  pig-sty  in- 
habited by  respectable  pigs  would  have  been 
sweet  in  comparison.  They  called  it  by  dis- 
tinction a  court.  A  court !  On  either  side  an 
alley  ten  feet  wfde,  which  had  no  thoroughfare, 
was  a  block  of  buildings:  old,  overhanging, 
tumble-down  dwellings.  They  had  no  outlet 
behind  on  either  side,  being  built  against  the 
backs  of  other  houses:  and  two  women,  hang- 
ing out  their  linen  to  dry  on  the  cords  stretched 
across  from  roof  to  roof,  could  lean  from  the 
windows  and  shake  hands  with  each  other. 
The  fresh  air  of  heaven,  given  us  so  freely  by 
God,  could  not  penetrate  to  these  miserable 
houses.  A  whole  colony  of  people  lived  in 
them,  how  many  in  a  room — at  least  in  some 
of  the  rooms— it  would  be  regarded  as  a  libel 
to  say.  The  stairs  were  scarcely  safe,  the 
floors  were  rotten;  dirt  and  sickness  prevailed. 
As  to  cleaning  the  places — water  was  a  great 
deal  too  scarce  for  that. 

Richard  Sale  went  nearly  to  the  bottom  of 
this  court,  turned  into  a  doorway  on  the  left, 
and  thence  into  a  room  on  the  right.  A  small , 
low  room.  Standing  in  its  midst  he  could 
have  touched  the  side  walls,  and  his  head 


SELLING  FLOWERS. 


263 


narrowly  escaped  brushing  the  ceiling.  What  [ 
colour  the  walls  had  originally  been,  nobody 
could  tell;  the  window,  facing  the  courtyard, 
had  most  of  its  panes  broken,  and  pasted  over 
with  newspaper.  On  the  high  mantle  piece, 
opposite  the  door,  was  a  lighted  candle  stuck 
in  a  gingerbeer-bottle.  The  man  looked  at  it 
as  he  went  in. 

"  Hal  loa,  Charley,  got  a  light  ? "  he  exclaimed, 
in  a  kind  tone. 

"  Bridget  Kelly  came  in  and  lighted  it,  da," 
replied  a  weak  young  voice  from  the  floor. 
"  I've  been  ill,  da." 

He  lay  on  a  mattress  against  the  wall  oppo- 
site the  window,  covered  with  a  gray  woollen 
blanket,  a  boy  of  nine  years  old.  In  frame  he 
looked  younger;  in  face  considerably  older,  for 
it  wore  that  preternatural  expression  of  intel- 
ligence sometimes  seen  in  delicate  children  of 
any  station,  often  in  the  extreme  poor.  It 
was  a  fair,  meek  little  face ;  and  something  in 
the  blue  eyes,  bright  to-night,  and  in  the  fall- 
ing flaxen  hair,  momentarily  reminded  the 
man  of  the  other  child  with  the  blue  ribbons 
he  had  seen  that  day.  This  little  boy  was  the 
only  one  of  all  his  family  left  to  Richard  Sale. 
He  had  been  ailing  some  time,  as  if  consumed 
by  inward  fever,  and  got  weaker  and  weaker. 

A  chair  without  a  back ;  a  low  wooden  stool 
on  three  legs;  a  board  laid  across  a  pan  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  serving  for  a  table,  appeared 
to  constitute  the  chief  of  the  goods  and  chattels : 
but  everything,  including  the  floor,  was  scrupu- 
lously clean.  Sale  put  down  the  things  he  had 
brought  in,  and  stooped  to  kiss  the  child. 

"Been  ill,  d'ye  say,  Charley?    Worse?" 

The  boy  was  sitting  up  now.  He  had  on  a 
warm  comfortable  shirt,  made  of  some  dark 
woollen  stuff.  The  father  stroked  the  hair 
from  his  brow  with  a  gentle  hand. 

"  Tell  da  what  the  matter  has  been." 

At  this  juncture  a  woman  came  bursting  in. 
A  very  untidy  woman,  in  attire  just  suited  to 
the  place;  the  Bridget  Kelly  spoken  of.  She 
with  her  husband  and  children  occupied  one 
of  the  upper  rooms,  and  would  often  look  after 
the  lonely  boy  when  his  father  was  away. 
From  what  she  said  now,  Sale  made  out  that 
she  had  come  in  that  afternoon  and  found 
Charley  "off  his  head:"  meaning  that  his 
mind  had  been  wandering. 

"May  be  it's  the  beginning  o'  faver,"  she 
said.  "  His  eyes  was  wild,  and  his  cheeks  had 
the  flush  o'  the  crimson  rose.  I  think  he  must 
ha'  been  in  it  some  time,  for  he  couldn't  re- 
member nothing  of  how  the  day  had  gone. 
After  that  he  took  a  fainting  fit,  and  I  thought 
sure  he  was" — she  stopped  a  moment,  and 


then  substituted  better  words  for  the  boy's  hear- 
ing than  those  she  had  been  about  to  say — 
"  worse,  and  it  frighted  me." 

Sale  made  no  reply,  only  looked  down  at  his 
child.  The  woman  continued : 

"  I  just  called  my  big  Pat,  and  sent  him  to 
ask  the  doctor  to  step  down  here.  But  we 
haven't  seen  the  colour  of  him  yet;  and  Pat, 
he've  not  come  back  nather.  I'll  be  after 
walloping  of  him  when  he  do." 

"What  doctor  did  you  send  to?"  asked 
Sale. 

"  One  that  Jenny  told  us  on.  She  come  i'  the 
thick  o'  the  fight,  and  she  said  she'd  stay  wi' 
him  then.  I  was  busy  a  dabbing  out  my  bits 
o'  things  for  the  childer. " 

Mrs.  Kelly  went  away,  and  Richard  Sale 
knelt  down  then  to  be  nearer  the  child.  He 
felt  his;hot  brow;  he  felt  his  little  hands,  they 
were  cold;  and  as  he  looked  attentively  into 
the  face  turned  up  to  him,  a  great  aching  took 
possession  of  his  heart.  He  loved  the  boy  with 
a  fervent  love,  as  it  was  in  his  nature  to  do, 
Contact  with  the  rough  usage  of  a  rough  world 
had  not  seared  his  affections  as  it  does  those  of 
most  men.  The  boy  turned,  as  if  in  sudden 
remembrance,  and  brought  up  a  flower  from 
somewhere  between  the  bed  and  the  wall.  It 
was  one  of  those  single  hyacinths,  or  field  blue- 
bells, common  to  the  season. 

"See,  da!"  Da,  a  substitute  for  daddy,  as 
may  be  surmised,  had  grown  into  common  use. 
The  boy  had  never  called  his  father  by  any 
other  name.  "Jenny  gave  it  me.  See  how 
nice  it  smells. " 

"Ay.     Are  you  hungry,  Charley?" 

"  I'm  thirsty,"  answered  Charley. 

Sale  rose.  He  took  off  his  smock-frock, 
standing  revealed  in  a  coloured  shirt,  trousers, 
and  braces  made  of  string;  lifted  the  board  off 
the  earthenware  pan,  and  brought  up  from 
thence  some  dry  bits  of  wood  and  a  handful  of 
coal :  with  these  he  made  a  fire.  From  a  cup- 
board in  the  wall  he  took  a  few  useful  articles, 
a  cup  or  two,  plate  or  two,  a  teapot,  and  small 
tin  kettle,  which  he  went  into  the  courtyard 
to  fill.  But  ever  and  anon  as  he  busied  him- 
self, waiting  for  the  water  to  boil,  he  cast  a 
yearning  look  on  the  boy's  face,  who  lay  lan- 
guidly watching.  This  evening  social  meal, 
so  patiently  waited  for  through  the  day,  through 
many  a  day,  was  the  one  white  interlude  in  his 
life  of  labour. 

"  It's  ready  now,  Charley.  Will  you  sit  up 
to  it?" 

Charley  left  the  bed  and  took  his  place  on 
the  three-legged  stool  close  to  the  fire,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  taken  with  a  shivering  fit. 


264 


SELLING  FLOWERS. 


Sale  folded  the  gray  blanket  over  him;  cut  him 
some  bread  and  the  half  of  a  saveloy,  and  gave 
it  him  on  a  plate.  Charley  took  a  bite  of  each 
and  apparently  could  not  swallow  either. 

"  The  tea's  coming,  lad." 

The  tea  did  come :  and  he  drank  it  down  at 
a  draught,  giving  back  the  cup  and  the  eatables 
together.  It  was  nothing  very  unusual:  his 
appetite  had  been  capricious  of  late.  "  I  can't 
eat  it,  da." 

"We'll  try  some  sop,  Charley.  Here's  a 
drop  of  milk  left." 

Going  to  the  cupboard  for  something,  Sale 
came  upon  an  unexpected  luxury.  Two  cold 
potatoes  on  a  plate  and  a  bit  of  cooked  herring. 
"  Why,  Charley,  here's  your  dinner!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  Haven't  you  eat  it?" 

"  I  forgot  it,  da." 

Of  course  this  implied  that  his  appetite  had 
failed.  Sale  did  not  like  it:  it  was  tlie  first 
time  the  mid-day  food  left  for  him  had  been 
wholly  untouched.  Slicing  a  bit  of  bread 
into  a  small  yellow  basin,  Sale  poured  some 
boiling  water  on  it,  covered  it  for  a  minute  or 
two,  then  drained  the  water  off,  and  put  in 
some  sugar,  and  the  milk  that  remained.  It 
may  be  remarked  that  Richard  Sale  did  things 
neatly  and  tidily,  quite  different  from  the  habits 
of  his  apparent  class:  as  he  was  different  in 
speech  and  manner.  Charley  eat  a  spoonful 
of  the  sop,  and  gave  the  basin  back  again. 
"  I'm  only  thirsty,  da." 

He  was  lying  covered  up  again,  and  had 
fallen  asleep  in  his  own  place  next  the  wall, 
for  the  mattress  served  for  both  of  them,  and 
the  father  was  washing  up  the  cups,  when  a 
strange  voice  was  heard  above  the  tongues  of 
the  natives,  who  seemed  to  be  always  keeping 
up  a  perpetual  traffic  in  the  passage,  and  were 
by  no  means  choice  in  their  language.  Sale 
opened  the  door. 

"Is  there  a  sick  boy  here,  named  Charles 
Sale?" 

It  was  the  doctor,  come  at  last.  A  young 
man,  a  Mr.  Whatley,  who  had  just  set  up  in  a 
neighbouring  street,  and  hoped  to  struggle 
into  practice.  He  had  a  shock  head  of  hair, 
and  a  loud  voice,  in  which  he  was  wont  to  ex- 
press decisive  opinions ;  but  he  wanted  neither 
for  common  sense  nor  innate  kindliness.  He 
came  in,  sniffing  emphatically,  saying  in  a 
word  that  he  had  been  detained,  and  giving  a 
keen  look  round  the  room.  Sale  began  to  ex-  j 
plain  the  features  of  the  boy's  illness,  but  the 
doctor  cut  it  short  by  unceremoniously  taking 
the  candle  in  his  hand  (leaving  the  bottle,  which 
Sale  made  a  faint  apology  for,  but  the  candle- 
stick had  come  to  pieces  a  night  or  two  ago), 


and  holding  it  close  to  the  sleeping  face.  A 
wan  white  face,  with  a  faint  streak  of  pink 
across  the  cheeks,  and  the  dry  lips  open.  He 
touched  the  child  gently,  feeling  his  skin  and 
his  pulse. 

"Shall  I  wake  him,  sir?" 

"  Presently,"  replied  Mr.  Whatley.  H« 
put  the  candle  back  in  the  bottle,  and  stood 
against  the  side  of  the  mantle-piece,  his  elbow 
resting  on  a  projecting  ledge  of  it,  in  silent 
disregard  of  the  broken  chair  Sale  offered. 
"  Have  you  had  advice  for  him  before?" 

"  I've  taken  him  to  the  dispensary.     But — " 

"  Well?"  for  the  man  had  stopped. 

"  The  gentlemen  there  told  me  they  could 
not  do  much  for  him,  sir.  Nothing,  in  fact. 
All  he  wanted  was  fresh  air  and  exercise,  they 
s"aid,  and  good  living." 

"And  have  }-ou  given  him  the  fresh  air  and 
exercise?"  Looking  round  the  room,  he  did 
not  add,  "and  the  living." 

"  How  could  I,  sir  ?  He  is  not  strong  enough 
to  go  about  with  me,  and  he's  too  big  for  me 
to  carry.  Now  and  then  I've  put  him  to  sit 
on  the  street-flags  in  the  sun,  but  it  don't  seem 
to  answer.  The  street  has  got  no  good  air  in 
it,  and  in  better  streets  the  police  would  only 
hunt  him  away,  and  tell  him  to  move  on." 

The  young  doctor  gazed  steadfastly  at  the 
speaker.  That  the  man  was  superior  to  his 
apparent  class,  and  could  answer  intelligence 
with  intelligence,  was  unmistakable.  Sale  just 
mentioned  that  he  had  lost  two  children  before, 
also  his  wife  ;  this  one,  Charley,  had  been  ail- 
ing for  about  eight  months  now,  nothing  seemed 
to  nourish  him.  The  doctor  listened  to  all, 
never  answering. 

"  What  is  it  that's  the  matter  with  him, 
sir?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  it  was  poison." 

"  Poison!"  echoed  Richard  Sale. 

"Poison,"  repeated  Mr.  Whatley.  "He  is 
being  poisoned  as  fast  as  he  can  be,  and  the 
process  is  nearly  over.  Children  die  of  it  daily 
in  London ;  and  men  and  women  too.  You 
say  yon  have  lost  two  children  already,  and 
your  wife:  they  died  of  poison;  there  can't  be 
a  doubt  of  it.  I  don't  care  what  particular 
form  the  final  end  may  take — low  fever — 
typhus — cholera — consumption — the  cause  is 
poison,  and  it's  bred  in  these  horrible  tene- 
ments. If  I  had  my  way,  I'd  blow  the  whole 
of  such  rookeries  up  sky-high  with  gunpowder. " 

"  My  wife  used  to  say  the  place  was  poison- 
ing her,"  observed  Sale.  "She  was  country- 
born.  What  she  seemed  to  die  of  was  decline: 
but  she  was  always  delicate." 

"Decline! "  wrathfully  repeated  Mr.  Whatley. 


SELLING  FLOWERS. 


265 


"If  I  stopped  in  this  hole  of  a  room  long,  I 
should  heave  my  heart  out." 

"  There's  no  drainage,  sir,  to  the  place; 
there's  nothing  that  there  ought  to  be;  and 
the  stench  naturally  strikes  on  them  not  accus- 
tomed to  it.  At  times  it's  hardly  to  be  borne 
by  us  who  live  in  it." 

"  I  should  think  not.  How  you,  an  evi- 
dently intelligent  and  decent  man,  can  live  in 
it,  is  to  me  a  mystery." 

"  What  else  am  I  to  do,  sir? "  returned  Sale, 
with  the  subdued  accent  he  mostly  spoke  in. 
"  There's  nothing  better  to  be  had  at  the  price 
I  can  afford  to  pay.  I  wish  there  was.  The 
greater  part  of  us  that  live  in  these  places  don't 
do  it  by  choice,  but  because  we  can't  help  our- 
selves. Some  don't  care;  they'd  pig  on  con- 
tentedly to  their  lives'  end;  but  most  of  us 
would  like  to  do  better.  There's  no  chance 
for  us:  there's  no  decent  dwellings  to  be  had 
for  the  very  poor." 

The  doctor  could  not  gainsay  this  if  Sale 
insisted  on  it,  though  he  had  a  combative  tem- 
per. Sale  continued: 

"  It's  growing  worse  every  day,  more  diffi- 
cult to  get  a  lodging.  What  with  so  many  of 
the  old  houses  being  pulled  down  for  what 
they  call  improvements  and  for  railways,  and 
what  with  the  increase  of  population,  we  shall 
soon  have  no  homes  at  all." 

"  I'd  go  out  and  encamp  in  the  fields;  I'd 
lay  under  the  arches  of  the  bridges;  I'd  walk 
the  streets  all  night,  rather  than  drug  myself 
to  death  in  this  tainted  atmosphere!"  cried  the 
surgeon,  speaking  as  if  he  were  in  a  passion. 

"  No,  sir,  you  wouldn't.  It's  easy  enough 
to  think  this  and  that,  but  it's  not  easy  to  do 
it.  A  room,  let  it  be  as  bad  as  it  will,  as  bad 
as  this,  is  a  home,  and  open  fields  and  bridges 
are  not.  Sir,  believe  me,  we  can't  help  our- 
selves :  as  long  as  there's  no  better  places  for 
us,  we  must  put  up  with  these." 

"  It  will  kill  some  of  you.  It  will  sap 
away  your  health  and  strength;  and  your  life 
after  it." 

"Yes,  sir;  I  dare  say." 

Mr.  Whatley  wondered  what  sort  of  man 
he  had  got  hold  of:  the  tone  of  voice  was  so 
quiet  and  resigned.  Almost  as  if  he  took  these 
grievances  as  a  matter  of  course,  against  which 
he  and  the  rest  of  the  world  were  helpless.  It 
was  but  a  natural  result  of  the  state  of  things. 

"You  have  been  better  off,  have  you  not?" 
cried  the  surgeon. 

"  Not  for  this  four  or  five  years.  I  was  a  good 
workman  once,  earning  my  thirty-five  shillings 
a  week.  I  went  in  for  respectability  then,  for 
improvement  clubs,  reading-rooms,  and  the 


like:  my  father  was  a  printer  in  the  country, 
and  we  had  good  schooling  and  training;  which 
gave  me  a  taste  for  such  things.  But  I  got 
rheumatic  fever  above  five  years  ago,  and  was 
laid  up  for  many  months." 

"And  then?" 

"It  left  my  hands  partly  crippled,  sir:  in 
some  weathers  they're  nearly  useless  still.  I've 
had  to  do  what  I  can  since  then;  pick  up  odd  jobs 
and  live  any  way.  Sometimes  I  get  a  job  at 
Covent  Garden  Market :  or  hawk  things  about 
the  streets  when  I've  money  to  buy  them  first. 
I  don't  complain,  sir;  there's  some  worse  off 
than  me." 

"  Not  in  lodgings,  I  know,"  retorted  the  sur- 
geon. ' '  D'ye  ever  have  a  case  of  murder  here  ? " 

"  I've  not  heard  of  one,  sir.  There's  plenty 
of  fighting  and  quarrelling.  You  may  hear  it 
going  on  now." 

"A  nice  school  to  rear  children  in!  decent 
men  and  women  they'll  grow  up!  If  I  lived 
in  such  a  place,  I  should  go  in  for  drinking," 
concluded  the  young  man  with  candour,  as  he 
took  his  arm  from  the  ledge  of  the  mantle-pieca. 

"As  most  of  them  do.  About  the  child, 
sir — is  it  fever  that  he  has  got?" 

' '  I  tell  you  it's  poison. " 

"  He  was  delirious  to-day." 

"  Yes:  from  weakness.  I  suppose  you  have 
fever  in  the  house?" 

"  It's  never  out  of  it,  sir;  one  sort  or  an- 
other. Never,  at  any  rate,  out  of  the  locality. " 

"  Just  so.  But  this  child's  has  been  nothing 
but  the  chronic  inward  fever  induced  by  the 
tainted  atmosphere.  It  has  nearly  left  him 
now. " 

"  Will  he  get  well,  sir?" 

Mr.  Whatley  knew  that,  far  from  getting 
well,  the  little  life  was  at  its  close.  It  was 
one  of  those  cases  where  the  end  comes  so 
gradually,  without  adequate  apparent  cause,  as 
to  be  unsuspected  by  ordinary  observers.  Sale 
waited  for  the  answer,  his  lips  slightly  parted. 

"  Would  you  rather  hear  the  truth?"  asked 
the  plain-speaking  doctor. 

There  was  a  minute's  silence.  "  Well — yes. 
Yes,  sir." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  tell  it  you.  You 
seem  to  value  him — and  that's  what  can't  be 
said,  I'll  wager,  of  all  the  fathers  in  this  place. 
He  will  not  get  well." 

"  But — what's  killing  him?"  cried  Sale,  with 
a  pause  and  a  sort  of  breath-catching. 

"  I  tell  you :  the  foul  air  he  has  breathed. 
It  must  and  does  affect  children,  and  this  one 
— as  I  can  see  at  a  glance — had  not  sufficient 
natural  strength  to  throw  off  the  poison. " 

"And  he'll  not  get   well!"   repeated   the 


266 


SELLING  FLOWERS. 


father,  who  seemed  to  be  unable  to  take  in 
the  fact. 

"Jenny  says  so  too.  She  says  I'm  going 
to  heaven." 

The  interruption,  quiet  as  it  was,  came  on 
them  with  a  start,  and  they  both  turned  sharply. 
The  child  was  lying,  with  his  eyes  wide  open, 
his  blue-bell  in  his  hand;  perhaps  had  been 
awake  all  along.  Mr.  Whatley  bent  down  to 
the  bed,  and  Sale  held  the  candle. 

"  Who  is  Jenny,  my  little  fellow  ?"  asked  he, 
all  his  roughness  of  manner  gone,  and  touch- 
ing the  child  as  tenderly,  speaking  as  gently, 
as  if  he  had  been  lying  in  a  satin  cradle. 

"She's  the  Bible-woman,  sir,"  answered  the 
boy,  who  had  caught  his  father's  correct  diction. 
"She  comes  because  I'm  by  myself  all  day, 
and  reads  to  me  and  tells  me  pretty  stories. " 

"  Stories,  eh.    About  Jack  the  Giant-killer?" 

"No,  sir.     About  heaven." 

Mr.  Whatley  rose.  He  took  a  small  white 
paper  from  his  pocket,  shot  some  powder  from 
it  into  a  tea-cup,  and  asked  for  fresh  water — if 
there  was  such  a  thing.  Sale  brought  some, 
which  the  doctor  smelt  and  made  a  face  over; 
and  he  put  it  to  the  powder  and  gave  it  the 
child  to  drink. 

"He  won't  eat  his  food,  sir,"  observed  Sale. 

"  I  dare  say  not.     He's  getting  beyond  it." 

The  boy  held  up  the  flower.  ' '  When  Jenny 
gave  me  this,  she  said  there'd  be  prettier  blue- 
bells in  heaven." 

"Ay,  ay,"  answered  the  young  man,  in  a 
tone  as  though  he  were  lost  in  some  dream. 
"  I'll  look  in  again  in  the  morning,"  he  said 
to  Sale,  when  the  latter  went  out  with  him  to 
the  unsavoury  alley.  "Y — ah!"  cried  he, 
wrathfully,  as  he  sniffed  the  air. 

Sale  seemed  to  want  to  say  something. 

"  I've  not  got  the  money  to  pay  you  now, 
sir.  I'll  bring  it  to  you,  if  you'll  please  to 
trust  me,  the  very  first  I  get." 

And  the  young  man,  who  was  a  quick  reader 
of  his  fellow-men,  knew  that  it  would  be 
brought,  though  Sale  starved  himself  to  save 
it.  "All  right,"  he  nodded,  "it  won't  be 
much.  Look  here,  my  man,"  he  stopped  to 
say,  willing  to  administer  a  grain  of  comfort 
in  his  plain  way,  "  if  it  were  my  child,  I  should 
welcome  the  change.  He'll  have  a  better  home 
than  this." 

Sale  went  in  again;  to  the  stifling  atmo- 
sphere and  the  dirty  walls,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  child  was  dying  so  peacefully.  The 
boy  did  not  seem  inclined  to  sleep  now;  he 
lay  in  bed  talking,  a  dull  glazed  light  in  the 
once  feverish  eyes.  Sale  drew  the  three-legged 
stool  close,  and  sat  down  upon  it.  The  lad 


put  his  hand  into  his  father's,  and  the  trifling 
action  upset  Sale's  equanimity,  who  had  been 
battling  in  silence  with  his  shock  of  grief. 
Very  much  to  his  own  discomfiture,  he  burst 
into  tears;  and  he  had  not  done  it  when  his 
wife  died. 

"  Don't  cry,  da.     Is  it  for  me?" 

"  It  seems  hard,  Charley,"  he  sobbed.  "The 
three  rest  all  taken,  and  now  you;  and  me  to 
be  left  alone!" 

•  "  You'll  come  next,  da.  Jenny  says  so. 
It's  such  a  beautiful  land;  music  and  flowers 
and  sweet  fresh  air.  Mother's  there,  and  Bessy 
and  Jane;  Jesus  took  them  home  to  it  because 
it  was  better  than  this,  and  he's  coming  for 
me.  Jenny  has  told  it  me  all. " 

Sale  made  no  reply.  He  saw  how  it  was — 
that  others  had  discerned  what  he  had  not:  the 
sure  approach  of  death — and  the  good  Bible- 
woman  had  been  at  her  work  preparing,  sooth- 
ing, reconciling  even  this  little  child.  But  it 
did  seem  very  hard  to  the  father. 

"If  I  could  have  kept  you  all  in  a  whole- 
some lodging,  Charley,  the  illness  mightn't 
have  come  on :  on  you  or  on  them.  God  knows 
how  I've  strove  to  do  my  best.  Things  be 
against  us  poor,  and  that's  a  fact;  these  hor- 
rible tumble-down  kennels  be  against  us. " 

"  Never  mine,  da:  it'll  be  better  in  heaven." 

Ah  yes !  yes,  it  will  be  better  in  heaven. 
And  may  God  sustain  all  these  unaided  ones 
with  that  sure  and  certain  hope  as  they  struggle 
on.  The  boy  slept  at  length;  but  he  started 
continually ;  sometimes  waking  up  and  asking 
for  water,  sometimes  rambling  in  speech.  Sale 
sat  and  watched  him  through  the  night,  he  and 
his  heavy  heart. 

You  may  be  sure  that  the  dawn  could  not 
penetrate  quickly  into  that  close  place,  shut 
in  from  the  open  light  and  air.  It  was  candle- 
light there,  but  getting  bright  outside,  when 
the  boy  started  up,  a  gray  look  on  his  wan 
face,  never  before  seen  there. 

"What  is  it,  Charley?    Water?" 

The  child  looked  about  him  as  if  bewildered; 
then  he  caught  up  the  blue-bell  that  lay  still 
at  hand,  and  held  it  out  to  his  father. 

"  Take  it,  da.  I  can  see  the  others  up 
there.  They  are  better  than  this. " 

He  lay  down  again,  his  little  face  to  the  wall, 
and  was  very  still.  So  still  that  Sale  hushed 
his  own  breath,  lest  he  should  disturb  him. 
The  sounds  of  the  day  were  commencing  out- 
side: two  women  had  already  pitched  upon 
some  point  of  dispute,  and  were  shrieking  r.t 
each  other  with  shrill  voices.  By-and-by  Sale 
leaned  over  to  look  at  the  still  face,  and  saw 
what  had  happened — that  it  was  still  for  ever! 


SIX  SONNETS. 


He  went  out  later  with  his  basket  of  roots. 
It  is  not  for  the  poor  to  indulge  grief  in  idle- 
ness; death  or  no  death  indoors,  money  must  be 
earned.  The  world  was  as  busy  as  though  no 
little  child,  free  from  want  now,  had  just  been 
laid  to  rest;  people  jostled  each  other  on  the 
pavements;  and  the  sun  shone  down,  direct 
and  hot,  from  the  clear  blue  sky.  As  Richard 
Sale  looked  up,  he  wondered  how  long  it  might 
be  before  God  removed  him  to  the  same  bright 
world :  and  he  took  his  stand  meekly  in  a  con- 
venient spot  for  the  sale  of  the  flowers. 


SIX  SONNETS. 

[I.  William  Dunbar,  born  1460,  died  1520.  He 
was  a  Scottish  poet,  but  there  is  little  known  as  to  the 
events  of  his  life.  He  commemorated  the  m  image  of 
James  IV.  with  Margaret  Tudor  in  The  Tki*  le  ami 
Rose;  and  received  a  yearly  pension  of  £10,  which  was 
afterwards  increased. 

II.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  born  in  Penshurst,  Kent, 
29th  November,  1554  ;  died  in  Aruheim,  7th  October, 
1586.  A  soldier,  courtier,  and  poet,  and  eminent  in 
the  three  characters  He  was  the  author  of  the  A  readier , 
and  the  Defence  of  Poesie.  The  nobility  of  his  nature 
is  best  illustrated  by  the  anecdote  related  by  Lord 
Brooke.  He  was  governor  of  Flushing  during  the  war 
between  the  Spaniards  and  the  Hollanders.  Wounded 
in  one  of  the  battles,  he  was  leaving  the  field  faint  and 
bleeding  when  he  was  attracted  by  the  cries  of  a  dying 
soldier  who  craved  water.  Sidney  gave  the  man  his 
own  supply,  saying,  "  Thy  necessity  is  yet  greater  than 
mine." 

IV.  John  Milton,  born  in  Bread  Street,  London, 
9th  December,  1608  ;  died  Sth  November,  1674.  Para- 
dise Loft  was  first  published  in  1067,  and  the  author, 
it  is  said,  received  £10  for  his  work.  He  became  blind 
about  the  year  1654.  Whilst  his  poems  are  to  be  found 
in  almost  every  household,  it  is  to  be  regretted  that 
liis  prose  works  are  seldom  read.  He  published  a 
History  of  England  in  1670.] 

I. 

TO  A  LADYE. 

V 

Sweit  rois  of  vertew  and  of  gentilness ; 

Delytsum  Jyllie  of  everie  lustyues ; 

Richest  in  bontie,  and  in  bewtie  cleir, 

And  everie  vertew  that  to  hevin  is  deir, 

Except  onlie  that  ye  ar  mercyles ! 

Into  your  garthe  this  day  I  did  persew : 

Tliair  saw  I  flouris  that  fresche  wer  of  hew; 

Baythe  q unite  and  rid  most  lustye  wer  to  seyne; 

And  halsum  herbis  upoue  stalkis  grene ; 

Yet  leif  nor  flour  fynd  could  I  nane  of  Rew. 

I  doute  that  Merche,  with  his  caulde  blastis  keyne, 

Has  slayne  this  gentill  herbe,  that  I  of  mono ; 

Quhois  (wtewus  deithe  dois  to  my  hart  sic  pane, 

That  I  would  vrak  to  plant  his  rute  agane. 

WILLIAM  DUNBAR. 


n. 

FEAR  OP  DEATH. 

Since  nature's  works  be  good,  and  death  doth  serve 
As  nature's  worke :  why  should  we  feare  to  die? 
Sjnce  feare  is  vain  but  when  it  may  preserve : 
Why  should  we  feare  that  which  we  cannot  Hie? 
Feare  is  more  paiue  than  is  the  paine  it  leurs, 
Disarming  human  minds  of  native  might: 
While  each  conceit  an  ougly  figure  bears, 
Which  were  not  evil  well  view'd  in  reason's  ligh'^ 
Our  only  eyes,  which  dimm'd  with  passions  be, 
And  scarce  discerne  the  dawne  of  coming  day. 
Let  them  be  clear'd,  and  now  begin  to  see, 
Our  life  is  but  a  step  in  dustie  way. 
Then  let  us  hold  the  blisae  of  t-eacel°ull  mindu, 
Since  this  we  feele,  great  losse  we  c.inuot  ;i. ,ue. 

Sin  Pump  SIDNEY. 

III. 
DEGENERACY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

AVliat  hapless  hap  had  1  for  to  be  born 

In  these  unhappy  Times  and  dying  days 

Of  this  now  doating  World,  when  Good  decays, 

Love's  quite  extinct  and  Virtue's  held  a  scorr  ! 

When  such  are  only  prized,  by  wietched  ways, 

Who  with  a  golden  fleece  them  can  adorn ; 

When  avarice  and  lust  are  counted  praise, 

And  bravest  minds  live  orphan-like  forlorn ! 

Why  was  not  I  born  in  that  golden  age 

When  gold  was  not  yet  known  ?  and  those  black  ai  ta 

By  which  base  worldlings  vilely  play  their  parts, 

With  horrid  acts  staining  Earth's  stately  stage? 

To  have  been  then,  O  Heaven ;  't  had  been  my  bliss, 

But  bless  me  now,  and  take  me  soon  from  this. 

DBUMMOND  of  Hawthoi-iMC'it. 

IV. 

TO  MR.  LAWRENCE. 
Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son. 
Now  that  the  fields  are  dank,  and  ways  are  mir?, 
Where  shall  we  sometimes  meet,  and  by  the  fire 
Help  waste  a  sullen  day,  what  may  be  won 
From  the  hard  season  gaining?    Time  will  rim 
On  smoother,  till  Favonius  re-inspire 
The  frozen  earth,  and  clothe  in  fresh  attire 
The  lily  and  rose,  that  neither  sow'd  nor  spun. 
What  neat  repast  shall  feast  us,  light  and  choice, 
Of  Attic  taste,  with  wine,  whence  we  may  rise 
To  hear  the  lute  well  touched,  or  artful  voice, 
Warble  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  air? 
He  who  of  those  delights  can  judge  and  spare 
To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 

JOHN  MILTON; 

V. 

WORLDLINESS. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us !— late  and  soon. 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  poweis, 
Little  there  is  in  nature  we  call  ours  : 
We  have  given  away  our  hearts — a  sordid  boon: 
That  sea  which  bares  its  bosom  to  the  moou. 


263 


FACT  AJS7D  FICTION. 


Those  clouds  that  will  be  weeping  at  all  hours, 
And  are  upgathered  now  like  summer  flowers. 
For  this — for  everything— we  are  out  of  tune  ! 
They  move  us  not ! — O  God,  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan,  cradled  in  a  creed  outworn, 
So  might  I — standing  on  this  pleasant  leu — 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn) 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  many -wreathed  horn. 
WORDS  WORTH. 

VI. 
OX  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead ! — 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead ; 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 

In  summer  luxury— he  has  never  done 

With  his  delights ;  for  when  tired  out  with  fun. 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

Tiie  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never !  — 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Hrts  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 

Ami  seems  to  one,  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 

i'he  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

JOHN  KEATS. 


FACT   AND   FICTION. 

"HERE    B2   TRUTHS." 

"When  the  heathen  philosopher  had  a  mind 
so  eat  a  grape,  he  would  open  his  lips  when  he 
put,  it  into  his  mouth,  meaning,  thereby,  that 
grapes  were  made  to  eat,  and  lips  to  open." 
These  are  "Facts;"  and  as  such  are  detailed 
by  Monsieur  Touchstone  the  clown,  "a  great 
lover  of  the  same."  "Shepherd,"  quoth  he, 
"learn  of  me:  To  have  is  to  have;"  another 
sage  maxim,  and  much  acted  upon  in  these 
enlightened  times.  Touchstone's  relish,  how- 
ever, for  "matter  of  fact "  is  but  the  substratum 
of  a  vein  of  humour  which  puts  him  a  little 
out  of  the  pale  of  your  true  and  veritable  mat- 
ter-of-fact people.  They — God  help  them  ! — 
don't  understand  jokes.  They  would  no  more 
think  of  disguising  a  fact  under  a  covering  of 
fun,  than  an  unsophisticated  Costar  Pearmain  or 
Tummas  Apple-tree  would  of  metamorphosing 
a  piece  of  fat  bacon  into  a  sandwich.  They 
deal  in  simples,  and  love  what's  what  for  its  own 
sake,  as  a  patron  of  the  "pure  disinterested- 
ness" system  does  virtue.  In  their  vocabulary 
"whatever  is,  is  right."  "Qtiicquid  ar/unt 
homines,  nostri  est  farrago  libelli,"  might  be 
their  motto.  They  are  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton's 
opinion,  who  thought  all  poetry  only  "ingen- 


ious nonsense."  They  ask,  with  the  professor 
of  the  mathematics  who  read  Homer,  "What 
does  the  Iliad  prove?"  They  are  the  precise 
antipodes  to  the  lady  who  doated  on  Plutarclis 
Lives  until  she  unluckily  discovered,  that,  in- 
stead of  being  romances,  they  were  all  true. 
With  the  Irish  bishop,  they  think  Gulliver  s 
Travels  a  pack  of  improbable  lies,  and  won't 
believe  a  word  of  them !  Some  of  their  fav- 
ourite authors  are  David  Hume,  Sir  Nathanael 
Wraxall,  Pepys,  Sir  John  Carr,  Bubb  Dod- 
dington,  Sir  John  Manderille,  and  John  Wes- 
ley. While  they  eschew,  as  downright  fables, 
the  Waverley  Novels,  The  History  of  John 
Bull,  Robinson  Crusoe,  The  Annals  of  the 
Par'sh,  S'nbad  the  Sailor,  Adam  Bla>r,  and 
Humphrey  Clinker.  If  they  meet  with  a  book 
that  is  dull,  "it  is  useful,  for  it  contains  mat- 
ter of -fact."  If  they  happen  to  meet  with  one 
that  is  not  dull,  they  say  the  same  thing. 
They  never  for  a  moment,  as  other  worthies 
sometimes  do,  mistake  their  imagination  for 
their  memory ;  for  which  there  is  perhaps  a 
sufficient  reason,  "if  philosophy  could  find  it 
out."  In  short,  all  imaginative  literature  they 
call  "light  reading;"  at  the  same  time  they 
are  unaccountably  shy  of  calling  their  own 
peculiar  favourites  heavy,  which  is  odd  enough, 
considering  that  they  seem  to  estimate  useful- 
ness (upon  which  they  lay  mighty  stress)  a 
good  deal  by  weight,  and  prefer,  as  in  duty 
bound,  "a  pound  of  lead  to  a  pound  of  feathers. " 
They  are  most  gravelled  by  the  metaphysics, 
of  which  they  are  rather  at  a  loss  what  to  make. 
They  contrive,  however,  to  avoid  studying  them 
as  being  something  "not  tangible."  To  con- 
clude— they  write  themselves  under  the  style 
and  title  of  "Lovers  of  Fact,"  and  are  yclept 
"matter-of-fact  people"  by  the  rest  of  Europe. 
That 

"  Facts  are  chiels  wha  winna  ding, 
An*  dowiia  be  disputed," 

is  a  truth  whi-ch  Burns  has,  after  his  own 
manner,  long  ago  asserted,  and  which  will  not 
be  readily  controverted.  But  still  this  is  no 
more  a  reason  for  loving  them,  than  it  is  for  a 
henpecked  husband  to  love  his  better-half, 
because  he  dare  not  contradict  her.  "Facts 
are  indisputable  things,"  quoth  Doctor  Dryas- 
dust. Very  true;  but  so  much  the  worse;  for, 
in  that  case,  there  is  an  end  of  the  conversa- 
tion. Rosalind  knew  better  when  she  recom- 
mended "kissing"  as  "the  cleanliest  shift  for 
a  lover  lacking  matter;"  for  if  it  be  resisted, 
argues  she,  "this  breeds  more  matter" — a  re- 
sult the  very  reverse  of  the  doctor's  definition. 
It  is  a  strange  thing,  but  in  all  ages  divers 
potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signers  seem  to 


FACT  AND  FICTION. 


hare  got  it  into  their  heads  that  "a  fact,"  as 
they  call  it,  has  a  sort  of  intrinsic  value,  as  a 
fact,  per  se.  They  attach  a  mystical  and 
peculiar  value  to  it,  as  mortals  (before  the  new 
birth  of  the  political  economists)  used  to  do  to 
gold,  without  reference  to  its  uses,  its  origin, 
or  its  adjuncts.  Adam  Smith  and  Peter  Mac- 
culloch  have  put  the  gold-doctrine  to  flight; 
but  the  other,  its  twin  brother,  remains  there 
still,  "unbated  and  envenomed."  "Facts," 
say  they  triumphantly,  "are  true;  now  Fiction 
is  untrue."  Very  well,  doctor;  and  suppose  it 
were  the  reverse.  Suppose  the  "Fact"  was 
untrue  and  the  Fiction  true — what  then  ?  This 
is  a  sort  of  query  that  sometimes  makes  a  man's 
head  spin  like  a  teetotum;  and  what  an  effect 
were  this  to  befall  a  head  that  never  spun  any- 
thing but  almanacks  during  life?  "Tilly 
Vally! " — The  value  of  a  Fact  lies  not  in  its  being 
what  it  is,  but  in  the  effect  it  produces.  A  his- 
torical series  is  valuable,  not  because  it  is  true, 
but  because,  being  true,  it,  in  consequence,  pro- 
duces certain  effects  upon  the  human  mind. 
Could  that  same  effect  be  produced  by  a  ficti- 
tious narrative,  it  would  be  just  as  good.  The 
same  effect  cannot  be  so  produced,  to  be  sure; 
and  what  does  this  prove?  It  proves  that 
truth  is  capable  of  producing  certain  effects,  of 
which  fiction  is  incapable.  This  is  ail  very 
well ;  but  it  happens  to  be  true  also  of  fiction, 
and  to  a  much  greater  extent.  This  is  no 
joke;  but  of  it  more  by-and-by. 

If  we  take  a  series  of  historical  or  other 
truths,  its  value  seems  to  lie  in  this,  that, 
being  true,  it  forms,  as  it  were,  an  extended 
experience.  It  serves  as  a  rule  of  action  for 
those  who  read  it.  To  do  this,  the  truth 
of  the  series  is  no  doubt  „ absolutely  neces- 
sary. It  is  essential  to  the  process.  But  it  is 
in  the  effect  upon  the  mind  that  the  value 
really  resides ;  and  the  truth  of  the  record  is 
only  one  aid,  amongst  others,  to  the  production 
of  that  end.  The  sagacious  personages  who 
are,  for  the  most  part,  accustomed  to  dogmatize 
upon  this  subject,  take  it  broadly  for  granted 
that  Fiction  is  something  directly  the  opposite 
of  Fact.  They  make  them  out  at  once  to  be 
as  light  and  darkness,  virtue  and  vice,  or  heat 
and  cold.  This  is  short-sighted  work.  There 
are  no  fictions  absolute.  None  which  do  not  in 
their  essence  partake  of  Fact.  For  all  Fiction 
is,  and  must  be,  more  or  less,  built  upon 
nature.  Nor  have  the  most  extravagant  any 
very  distant  resemblance  to  it.  We  can  only 
combine.  It  is  beyond  the  power  of  man  to 
invent  anything  which  shall  have  no  smack 
and  admixture  of  reality  throughout  its  whole. 
If  it  were  possible,  it  would  be  incomprehen- 


sible. The  wildest  inventions  are  only  partial 
departures  from  the  order  of  nature.  But  to 
nature  they  always  look  back,  and  must  ulti- 
mately be  referred.  They  are  no  more  inc'e- 
pendent  of  her,  than  a  balloon  is  of  the  earth, 
although  it  may  mount  for  a  while  above  its 
surface.  The  connection  between  them  may 
not  be  so  obvious,  but  it  is  no  less  certain. 

Fact,  then,  is  the  primary  substratum — the 
primitive  granite — upon  which  all  Fiction  is 
formed.  And  this  being  so,  Fiction  has  always 
more  or  less  of  the  advantages  of  truth,  besides 
superadded  advantages  peculiar  to  itself.  In 
its  employment  we  have  this  privilege.  We 
can,  at  will,  produce  such  a  concatenation  of 
supposed  and  yet  natural  events,  as  may  be 
requisite  to  bring  about  the  effect,  and  teach 
the  lesson  we  wish.  We  can  always  do  poetical 
justice.  We  need  never  want  an  instructive 
catastrophe.  We  escape  that  want  of  result  to 
which  accidental  series  are  so  liable;  nor  do  we 
bring  it  about,  as  sometimes  it  happens  in  real 
life,  through  an  unworthy  instrument.  The 
murderer  who  escapes  at  Newgate  is  punished 
upon  the  stage.  Historical  ruffians  become 
heroes  in  an  epic;  and  love,  sometimes  selfish 
in  its  origin,  is  ever  pure  in  its  poetry.  The 
effect  arising  out  of  a  good  tragic  or  epic  poem 
springs  from  the  same  principle  as  if  it  were 
from  history.  The  experience  we  derive  from 
it,  though  nominally  artificial,  is  essentially, 
and  to  all  intents,  real.  Fiction  only  enables 
us  to  render  the  effect  more  direct  and  complete 
than  events  might  have  done.  We  conduct 
the  lightning  where  we  want  it ;  but  it  is  not 
the  less  lightning.  The  "vantage-ground" 
gained  by  this  faculty  is  unquestionably  enor- 
mous. We  can  not  only  command  the  sequence 
of  incident  and  the  tides  of  passion,  but  we  can 
exhibit  them  again  and  again,  as  often  as  we 
please.  A  century  might  have  elapsed  before 
the  gradual  progress  of  wickedness,  and  the 
torments  of  guilty  ambition,  were  exhibited  as 
fully  and  as  much  to  the  life,  as  they  are  in 
Macbeth  and  Richard.  A  million  of  Italian 
intrigues  might  have  been  concocted  and 
enacted,  before  treachery  and  jealousy  were  so 
completely  anatomized  as  in  Othello.  But  this 
is  not  all.  In  real  life,  be  the  series  of  events 
what  they  will,  they  are  rarely  manifested  to 
any  in  their  completeness.  Dark  deeds  and 
intricacies  of  passion  have  few  witnesses ;  and 
even  these  seldom  witness  the  entire  detail. 
They  are  only  seen  in  their  integrity  in  news- 
paper narratives  and  judicial  reports;  and  then 
the  passions  of  the  actors  are  buried  and  lost 
in  the  verbiage  of  an  editor  or  the  dry  tech- 
nicality of  legal  inquiry.  Now,  in  a  theatre, 


270 


FACT  AND  FICTION. 


Macbeth  murders  and  repents  three  times  a 
week.  Boxes,  pit,  and  galleries  are  witnesses 
to  the  subtle  poison  of  his  ambition  and  the 
terrible  shrinking^  of  his  remorse.  The  LESSON 
which  in  nature  would  have  been  imprinted 
but  once,  is  stereotyped  by  the  art  of  the  poet, 
and  diffused  amidst  thousands  who  else  had 
never  known  either  its  import  or  its  name. 

In  the  circle  of  the  sciences  the  reign  of 
Fact  would,  at  the  first  blush,  seem  to  be  fully 
established.  Fiction  there  would  either  seem 
to  be  an  open  usurper,  or  at  best  a  sort  of 
Perk  in  Warbeck— a  pretender  who  can  only 
hope  to  succeed  by  counterfeiting  the  appear- 
ance of  another.  They,  however,  who  acquiesce 
in  this,  see  a  short  way  into  the  question. 
The  exact  sciences,  beautiful  and  invaluable 
as  they  are,  seldom  embrace  the  whole,  even  of 
the  subjects  of  which  they  profess  to  treat. 

There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your — philosophy. 

The  simplest  natural  objects  have  bearings 
which  calculation  does  not  touch,  and  appear- 
ances and  relations  which  definition  fails  to 
include.  They  must  have  a  poor  conception  of 
"  this  goodly  frame  the  earth," — of  "this  brave 
overhanging  firmament,  this  majesticat  roof, 
fretted  with  golden  fire,"  who  think  that  these, 
in  all  their  infinitude  of  variety  and  beauty, 
can  be  ranged  in  categories,  and  ticketed  and 
labelled  in  definitions.  Can  we  get  an  idea  of 
the  splendour  and  odour  cf  the  flower  by  looking 
out  genus  and  species  in  Linnseus?  Do  we 
hear  the  roar  of  the  waterfall,  or  behold  the 
tints  of  the  rainbow,  in  the  theory  of  acoustics, 
the  law  of  falling  bodies,  and  the  prismatic 
decomposition  of  the  solar  ray  ?  Can  we  strain 
an  idea  of  a  storm  at  sea  out  of  an  analysis  of 
salt-water  and  the  theories  of  the  tides  and 
winds?  Can  we  compass  the  sublimity  of  the 
heavenly  vault  by  knowing  every  constellation, 
and  every  star  of  every  magnitude,  of  every 
name,  and  of  every  character,  Latin  or  Greek, 
upon  the  celestial  globe?  Can  geography  or 
geology  show  us  Mont  Blanc  in  his  unap- 
proachable majesty,  or  Chamouni  in  her  beauty? 
It  is  in  vain  to  ask  these  questions.  Of  the 
sublimer  qualities  of  objects,  science  (so  called) 
affords  no  ideas.  It  gives  us  substance  and 
measurement,  but  for  the  aggregate  intellectual 
effect,  we  must  resort  to  imaginative  description 
and  the  painting  of  the  poet.  He  who  never 
saw  Dover  Cliff,  will  find  it  in  King  Lear,  and 
not  in  the  County  H  story  or  the  Transaction* 
of  the  Geoloi/ical  Soc'ety.  To  him  who  never 
beheld  a  shipwreck,  Falconer  and  Alexander 
Stevens  are  better  helps  than  the  best  calcula- 


tion of  the  strength  of  timber,  as  opposed  to 
the  weight  of  a  column  of  water  multiplied  into 
its  velocity.  If  we  want  a  full  perception  of 
the  power  of  the  beautiful,  Professor  Camper's 
facial  angle,  and  Sir  Joshua's  waving  line,  sink 
to  nothing  before  Shakespeare's  Imogen  or 
Cleopatra,  or  Kit  Marlowe's  description  of 
Helen,  in  the  play  of  Faustus.  All  the  topo- 
graphical quartos  that  ever  were  written  afford 
no  such  prospects  as  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  or 
Thomson's  Seasons.  The  true  lover  of  flowers 
had  rather  read  Lycidas,  or  Perdita's  descrip- 
tion of  her  garden,  than  hunt  for  "habitats"  in 
herbals  or  botanists'  guides;  —  and  whether 
Glencoe  and  Borrodale  be  primary  or  secondary 
formations,  their  sublimity  and  grandeur  re- 
main the  same,  in  freedom  and  in  contempt  of 
systems  and  scientific  arrangements. 

All  this,  however,  is  still  not  directly  to  the 
question.  The  point  is — has  Fact  or  Fiction 
produced  the  most  important  changes  in 
society?  This  is  the  real  gist  of  the  matter, 
and  as  this  is  answered,  so  must  the  dispute 
terminate.  It  sounds  perhaps  somewhat  like 
a  paradox,  yet  the  reply  must  be  given  in 
favour  of  the  latter.  Let  us  look  at  it.  The 
exact  sciences  have,  without  doubt,  most 
changed  the  outward  and  bodily  frame  and 
condition  of  society.  But  the  great  mutations 
of  the  world  have  not  their  origin  in  these 
things.  They  spring  from  those  causes,  what- 
ever they  may  be,  which  soften  the  manners, 
modify  the  passions,  and  at  once  enlarge  and 
purify  the  current  of  public  thought.  The 
Spartan  legislator  who  punished  the  poet  for 
adding  another  string  to  his  lyre,  well  knew 
this.  A  people  are  the  most  quickly  affected 
through  their  imaginative  literature.  A  few 
ballads  have  altered  the  character  and  destiny 
of  a  nation.  The  Troubadours  were  amongst 
the  most  early  and  most  successful  civilizers  of 
Europe.  The  obscure  writers  of  romances, 
fabliaux,  and  metrical  legends  were  the  most 
potent  changers  of  the  face  of  society.  Upon 
a  barbarous  and  treacherous  brutality,  they 
gradually  ingrafted  an  overstrained  courtesy 
and  the  most  romantic  maxims  of  love  and 
honour.  Romance,  the  mother  of  chivalry,  at 
length  devoured  her  own  offspring,  Don 
Quixote  and  the  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle 
put  down  the  errant-knights  and  the  paladins; 
and  what  Archbishop  Turpin  and  the  author 
of  Amadis  began,  Cervantes  and  Fletcher 
ended.  Looking  at  the  literature  of  England, 
it  is  certain  that  the  plays  of  Shakspeare  and 
his  fellows  have  produced  a  greater  effect  upon 
the  English  mind  than  the  Principia  of  Newton. 
Had  the  laws  of  attraction  never  been  demon- 


FACT  AND   FICTION. 


271 


ttrated,  and  the  planetary  system  of  Ptolemy 
remained  uncontroverted,  the  general  intellect 
would  hare  been  much  as  it  is.  These  great 
truths  come  little  into  common  use.  They  do 
not  mix  themselves  with  our  daily  concerns. 
We  love,  hate,  hope,  fear,  and  revenge,  without 
once  considering,  or  caring,  whether  the  earth 
revolves  from  west  to  east,  or  from  east  to  west. 
Whatever  stimulates  or  purges  our  passions — 
whatever  gives  a  higher  pulse  to  generosity,  or 
a  deeper  blush  to  villany — whatever  has  enriched 
pity  with  tears,  or  love  with  sighs — whatever 
has  exalted  patriotism  and  laid  bare  ambition — 
that  it  is  which  ferments  and  works  in  the  mind 
of  a  nation,  until  it  has  brought  it  to  the  relish 
of  its  own  vintage,  be  it  good  or  evil.  Such 
were  the  writings  of  Shakspeare  and  his  great 
contemporaries,  Spenser,  Marlow,  Fletcher, 
Chapman,  Deckar,  and  "the  immortal  and 
forgotten  Webster."  In  all  ages,  the  imagina- 
tive writers,  when  they  had  scope,  have  ex- 
hibited the  same  powers  of  changing  and 
moulding  the  habits  of  a  nation.  The  Puri- 
tanical authors  of  the  Commonwealth  turned 
England  into  a  penitentiary;  and  the  wits  and 
poets  of  Charles  II.,  by  way  of  revenge,  next 
turned  it  into  a  brothel — until  the  poetical 
satires  of  Pope,  and  the  moral  wit  of  Addison, 
Steele,  Swift,  Arbuthnot,  and  Gay,  again 
helped  to  "purge  it  to  a  sound  and  pristine 
health."  Look  over  the  page  of  history  where 
we  will,  and  the  footsteps  of  the  poet,  the 
dramatist,  and  the  essayist,  may  be  traced  as 
plainly  as  those  of  the  lawgiver  and  the  philo- 
sopher. Amongst  the  light  stores  of  the  play- 
wright, the  novelist,  and  the  ballad-maker,  must 
the  historian  and  the  antiquary  look  for  ma- 
terials, as  well  as  amidst  the  graver  annals  of 
their  predecessors.  He  who  wishes  to  ascertain 
Hannibal's  route  across  the  Alps,  must  read 
Silius  Italicus  as  well  as  Polybius.  He  who 
wishes  to  behold  the  true  features  of  the 
Rebellion  of  Forty-five,  must  read  the  Jacobite 
Relics  as  well  as  the  Culloden  Papers.  The 
antiquary  who  would  illustrate  the  idiom, 
manners,  and  dress  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign, 
must  go  to  Shakspeare,  Lyly,  and  Heywood. 
Nay,  even  the  politician  who  would  construct 
a  perfect  commonwealth,  must  read  Plato, 
More,  Sir  John  Harrington,  Swift,  and  Lord 
Erskine,  as  well  as  Montesquieu  or  Locke. 

There  is  yet  another  view  to  be  taken  of  this 
question,  and  that  perhaps  the  most  decisive. 
It  is  this — that  Fiction  has  probably  contri- 
buted in  a  double  proportion  to  the  sum  of 
human  delight.  If  then  rational  and  innocent 
enjoyment  be  the  end  of  life — (and  if  it  be  not, 
what  is?) — there  is  little  more  to  be  said.  There 


j  are,  to  be  sure,  certain  worthy  and,  upon  the 
whole,  well-meaning  persons,  who  make  a 
loud  outcry  about  what  they  exclusively  call 
"Utility."  If,  however,  you  happen  to  ask 
them  of  what  use  is  utility,  excepting  to  ad- 
minister to  the  pleasure  and  comfort  of  man- 
kind, they  ("bless  their  five  wits")  are  at  a 
nonplus.  They  have  confounded  themselves 
and  others  with  a  notion  that  things  necessary, 
or  which  cannot  be  done  without,  are  there- 
fore more  useful  than  things  which  can.  Thi» 
they  take  to  be  an  axiom.  It  happens  only  to 
be  a  mistake.  It  arises  out  of  a  confused  per- 
ception of  the  real  scope  and  meaning  of  the 
term  Usefulness.  They  forget  that  their  sort 
of  usefulness  is  negative  and  collateral,  not 
positive  and  intrinsic.  It  is  only  a  consequence 
of  the  imperfection  and  infirmity  of  human 
nature,  which  requires  certain  things  to  enable 
it  to  enjoy  certain  other  things.  This,  however, 
only  is  a  negative  merit,  being  the  filling  up  a 
defect,  and  not  the  addition  of  a  positive  good. 
Necessaries  are  better  than  superfluities,  quoad 
the  infirmity  of  our  nature — but  not  in  the  ab- 
stract. To  supply,  or  rather  avoid  a  defect,  is 
a  negation,  as  far  as  enjoyment  is  concerned. 
To  obtain  a  positive  pleasure  is  "the  very 
entelechia  and  soul"  of  our  being.  Were  this 
not  so,  we  might  as  well  assert  that  the  child's 
A,  B,  C,  are  better  than  all  the  learning  to  the 
acquisition  of  which  they  are  necessary — that 
the  foundation  is  better  than  the  house,  water 
than  wine,  oaten  cake  than  ambrosia,  a  jakes 
than  a  summer-house.  That  the  sum  of  intel- 
lectual pleasure  afforded  by  Fiction  is  beyond 
that  obtained  from  other  sources,  is  tolerably 
plain.  It  is  evident  in  this,  that  imaginative 
compositions  will  bear  almost  infinite  repetition, 
whilst  other  descriptions  of  writing  hardly  en- 
dure repeating  at  all.  We  make  ourselves 
acquainted  with  a  series  of  facts,  and  having 
done  so,  are  contented,  excepting  in  as  far  as 
we  may  make  them  the  means  of  arriving  at 
other  facts.  The  only  passion  to  be  gratified  is 
curiosity,  and  that  can  only  be  once  gratified. 
We  take  a  pursuit,  and  having  got  as  far  as  we 
can,  the  delight  is  for  the  most  part  at  an  end. 
Not  so  with  works  of  the  imagination.  They 
address  themselves,  in  turn,  to  every  feeling 
and  passion  of  our  nature;  and  as  long  as  we  re- 
tain those  feelings,  so  long  are  we  enchained  by 
them.  There  are  few  minds  by  which  they  can- 
not more  or  less  be  felt  and  appreciated,  and, 
once  felt,  they  never  fail  us.  Poetry  may  be 
said  to  be  the  only  thing  of  this  world  which  is  at 
once  universal  and  immortal.  Time  obscures 
every  other  monument  of  human  thought. 
History  becomes  obsolete,  doubtful,  and  for- 


272 


BALLAD  OF  CRESENTIUS. 


gotten.  Sciences  ar«  changed.  But  poetry, 
never  fading,  never  dies.  The  events  of  Homer's 
life  are  in  irrecoverable  oblivion.  His  very 
birthplace  is  unknown:  and  of  his  heroes  and 
his  wars,  not  a  trace  remains  to  prove  that 
such  have  ever  been.  Yet  he  and  they  live, 
breathe,  and  act  as  freshly  in  his  poetry  at 
this  hour  as  they  did  two  thousand  years  ago. 
The  hearts  that  have  leaped  at  the  tale  of  his 
Achilles,  would  march  ten  thousand  such 
armies;  and  the  tears  that  have  dropped  over 
the  parting  of  his  Hector  and  Andromache, 
might  almost  make  up  another  Scamander. 
Well  may  we  exclaim  with  a  living  bard : — 

"  Blessings  be  on  them,  aud  eternal  praise, 

The  Poets" 

They  whose  courtesies  come  without  being 
sought,  who  mingle  themselves  like  friends 
amid  our  everyday  pursuits,  and  sweeten  them 
we  scarcely  know  how — Who  enhance  pros- 
perity and  alleviate  adversity ;  who  people 
solitude  and  charm  away  occupation — Who, 
like  flowers,  can  equally  adorn  the  humblest 
cottage  or  the  proudest  palace — Who  can  de- 
light without  the  aid  of  selfishness,  and  soothe 
without  the  opiate  of  vanity — Please  when 
ambition  has  ceased  to  charm,  and  enrich  when 
fortune  has  refused  to  smile. 

If  we  glance  over  the  everyday  literature  of 
the  time,  it  is  amusing  to  observe  how  the  im- 
aginative and  metaphysical  have  gone  on  pre- 
dominating. Turn  to  a  popular  treatise  or  an 
essay  in  a  popular  periodical,  and  ten  to  one  it 
contains  reflections  on  the  modifications  of 
character,  inquiries  into  the  changes  of  the 
human  mind,  or  an  analysis  of  some  one  or 
other  habit,  mood,  or  passion.  The  tangible 
has  given  way  to  the  abstract.  Dry  details  of 
Druidical  monuments,  and  openings  of  barrows 
and  cromlechs;  queries  as  to  whether  fairy 
rings  are  caused  by  lightning  or  mushrooms; 
histories  of  old  churches  and  market- crosses, 
annals  of  water-spouts  and  land-floods;  heights 
of  mountains  and  depths  of  lakes;  meteors, 
fire-balls,  and  falling  stars;  lunar  rainbows; 
lusus  naturae;  elopements;  deaths,  births,  and 
marriages — have  all  yielded  to  compositions  in 
which  the  feelings  such  objects  produce  form 
as  large  a  portion  of  the  subject  as  the  things 
themselves ;  and  what  has  been  felt  and  thought 
is  treated  of  as  fully  as  what  has  been  seen 
and  done.  This  is  the  progress  of  the  mind. 
Facts  are  only  the  precursors  of  abstractions  ; 
and  thus  may  it  proceed  until,  in  the  fulness 
of  time,  our  very  children  may  prefer  setting 
afloat  a  metaphysical  paradox  to  blowing  an 
air-bubble. 

THOMAS  POUBLKDAY. 


BALLAD  OF  CRESENTIUS. 

[Laetitia  Elizabeth  Landon,  bom  iu  Chelsea,  Lon- 
don, 14th  August,  ISOi ;  died  at  Cape  Coast  Castle, 
Africa,  15th  October,  18-J8.  At  an  early  age  she  gave 
evidence  of  her  literary  abilities.  She  says:  "1  cannot 
remember  the  time  wheu  composition,  iu  some  shape 
or  other,  was  not  a  habit.  I  used  to  invent  long  stories, 
which  I  was  only  too  glad  if  I  could  get  my  mother  to 
hear.  These  soon  took  a  metrical  form  ;  and  I  used  to 
walk  about  the  grouijds,  and  lie  awake  half  the  night, 
reciting  my  verses  aloud."  Her  father's  neighbour  was 
Mr.  William  Jerdan,  the  editor  of  the  Literary  Gazette. 
To  him  several  of  her  compositions  were  submitted,  and 
he  could  scarcely  believe  that  they  were  the  productioi.a 
of  the  girl  he  had  seen  iu  the  next  garden,  bowling  ;v 
hoop  with  one  hand,  whilst  the  other  held  a  book.  He 
published  a  number  of  her  poems  in  the  GazMf,  niidm- 
the  signature  L.  E.  L.,  and  they  immediately  attracted 
attention  to  the  new  poet.  Miss  Landon  then  produced 
her  first  volume,  The  Improvisatricf,  which  was  iu  every 
respect  successful.  The  Troubadour  followed,  and  her 
fame  spread  rapidly  over  the  world.  Family  difficulties 
rendered  the  exercise  of  her  pen  a  necessity,  and  she 
worked  with  untiring  industry  in  prose  and  verse  for  the 
Literary  Gazttte  and  the  animals.  Her  poems  are  marked 
by  a  melancholy,  which  at  times  becomes  morbid  ;  yet 
in  social  intercourse  she  displayed  the  liveliest  disposi- 
tion. She  published  three  novels :  Francesco,  Carrara: 
Romance  and  Reality:  and  Ethel  Churchill.  She  married 
Mr.  George  M'Lean,  then  governor  of  Cape  Coast  Castle, 
on  the  7th  June,  1838.  and  five  months  afterwards  di<w 
from  the  effects  of  an  overdose  of  prussic  acid.] 

I  look'd  upon  his  brow, — no  sign 

Of  guilt  or  fear  was  there, 
He  stood  as  proud  by  that  death-shrine 

As  even  o'er  despair 
He  had  a  power;  in  his  eye 
There  was  a  qvienchless  energy, 

A  spirit  that  could  dare 
The  deadliest  form  that  death  could  take. 
And  dare  it  for  the  daring's  sake. 

He  stood,  the  fetters  on  his  hand, 

He  raised  them  haughtily; 
And  had  that  grasp  been  on  the  brand, 

It  could  not  wave  on  high 
With  freer  pride  than  it  waved  now; 
Around  he  looked  with  changeless  brow 

On  many  a  torture  nigh; 
The  rack,  the  chain,  the  axe,  the  wheel, 
And,  worst  of  all,  his  own  red  steeL 

I  saw  him  once  before;  be  rode 

Upon  a  coal-black  steed, 
And  tens  of  thousands  throng'd  the  road, 

And  bade  their  warrior  speed. 
His  helm,  his  breastplate,  were  of  gold, 
And  graved  with  many  dint,  that  tolJ 

Of  many  a  soldier's  deed; 
The  sun  shone  on  his  sparkling  mail, 
And  danced  his  .snow-plume  on  the  gal*. 


THE  SCREEN. 


273 


But  now  he  stood  chained  and  alone, 

The  headsman  by  his  side, 
The  plume,  the  helm,  the  charger  gone; 

The  sword,  which  had  defied 
The  mightiest,  lay  broken  near : 
And  yet  no  sign  or  sound  of  fear 

Came  from  that  lip  of  pride; 
And  never  king  or  conqueror's  brow 
"Wore  higher  look  than  did  his  now. 

He  bent  beneath  the  headsman's  stroke 

With  an  uncover'd  eye; 
A  wild  shout  from  the  numbers  broke 

Who  throng'd  to  see  him  die. 
It  was  a  people's  loud  acclaim, 
The  voice  of  anger  and  of  shame, 

A  nation's  funeral  cry, 
Rome's  wail  above  her  only  son, 
Her  patriot  and  her  latest  one. 


THE  GRAVES   OF  A   HOUSEHOLD. 

They  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side, 
They  fill'd  one  house  with  glee  — 

Their  graves  are  sever'd  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea ! 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O'er  each  fair  sleeping  brow, 

She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight- 
Where  are  those  dreamers  now? 

One  midst  the  forests  of  the  West, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid ; 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one, 

He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep ; 
He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 

O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  dress'd 

Above  the  noble  slain, 
He  wrapt  his  colours  round  his  breast, 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one— o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fann'd, 

She  faded  'midst  Italian  flowers, 
The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus,  they  rest  who  play'd 

Beneath  the  same  green  tree, 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  pray'd 

Around  one  parent  knee ! 

VOL.  I. 


They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 
And  cheer'd  with  song  the  hearth — 

Alas  for  love,  if  t/wu  wert  all, 
And  nought  beyond,  on  earth ! 


MRS.  HF.MANS. 


THE    SCREEN,    OR    "NOT   AT   HOME." 

[Amelia  Opie,  born  in  Norwich,  12th  November, 
17ti9;  died  in  that  city,  2d  December,  1S53.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  James  Alderson,  M.D.,  and  became  the 
wife  of  Johu  Opie,  the  painter,  whoie  genius  elevated 
him  from  the  position  of  a  poor  carpenter's  son  in 
Cornwall,  to  that  of  professor  of  painting  to  the  Royal 
Academy.  Mrs.  Opie  wrote  several  novels,  soon  after 
her  marriage,  of  which  the  most  notable  are  Fut/ur  and 
Dauiihtei-,  Addaii/e  Alotcbray,  and  Simple  Tula.  She 
also  contributed  prose  and  verse  to  various  magazines 
and  annuals.  She  became  a  member  of  the  Society  of 
Friends  in  18'25,  and  became  distinguished  by  her 
philanthropic  labours  for  the  welfare  of  the  jioor.J 

The  widow  of  Governor  Atheling  returned 
from  the  East  Indies,  old,  rich,  and  childless; 
and  as  she  had  none  but  very  distant  relations, 
her  affections  naturally  turned  towards  the 
earliest  friends  of  her  youth ;  one  of  whom  she 
found  still  living,  and  residing  in  a  large 
country  town. 

She  therefore  hired  a  house  and  grounds 
adjacent,  in  a  village  very  near  to  this  lady's 
abode,  and  became  not  only  her  frequent  but 
welcome  guest.  This  old  friend  was  a  widow 
in  narrow  circumstances,  with  four  daughters 
slenderly  provided  for;  and  she  ju.stly concluded 
that,  if  she  and  her  family  could  endear  them- 
selves to  their  opulent  guest,  they  should  in  all 
probability  inherit  some  of  her  property.  la 
the  meanwhile,  as  she  never  visited  them  with- 
out bringing  with  her,  in  great  abundance, 
whatever  was  wanted  for  the  table,  and  might 
therefore  be  said  to  contribute  to  their  main- 
tenance, without  seeming  to  intend  to  do  so, 
they  took  incessant  pains  to  conciliate  her  more 
and  more  every  day,  by  flatteries  which  she 
did  not  see  through,  and  attentions  which  she 
deeply  felt.  Still,  the  Livingstones  were  not 
in  spirit  united  to  their  amiable  guest.  The 
sorrows  of  her  heart  had  led  her,  by  slow 
degrees,  to  seek  refuge  in  a  religious  course  of 
life;  and,  spite  of  her  proneness  to  self-decep- 
tion, she  could  not  conceal  from  herself  that, 
on  this  most  important  subject,  the  Living- 
stones had  never  thought  seriously,  and  were 
as  yet  entirely  women  of  the  world.  But  still 
her  heart  lonsred  to  love  something;  and  as  her 
starved  affections  craved  some  daily  food,  she 
suffered  herself  to  love  this  plausible,  amusing, 
18 


274 


THE  SCREEN. 


agreeable,  and  seemingly  affectionate  family; 
and  she  every  day  lived  in  hope  that,  by  her 
precepts  and  example,  she  should  ultimately 
tear  them  from  that  "world  they  loved  too 
well. "  Sweet  and  precious  to  their  own  souls 
are  the  illusions  of  the  good;  and  the  deceived 
East  Indian  was  happy,  because  she  did  not 
understand  the  true  nature  of  the  Livingstones. 

On  the  contrary,  so  fascinated  was  she  by 
what  she  fancied  they  were,  or  might  become, 
that  she  took  very  little  notice  of  a  shame- 
faced, awkward,  retiring,  silent  girl,  the  only 
child  of  the  dearest  friend  that  her  childhood 
and  her  youth  had  known, — and  who  had  been 
purposely  introduced  to  her  only  as  Fanny 
Barnwell.  For  the  Livingstones  were  too  sel- 
fish, and  too  prudent,  to  let  their  rich  friend 
know  that  this  poor  girl  was  the  orphan  of 
Fanny  Beaumont.  Withholding,  therefore, 
the  most  important  part  of  the  truth,  they  only 
informed  her  that  Fanny  Barnwell  was  an 
orphan,  who  was  glad  to  live  amongst  her 
friends,  that  she  might  make  her  small  income 
sufficient  for  her  wants ;  but  they  took  care 
not  to  add  that  she  was  mistaken  in  supposing 
that  Fanny  Beaumont,  whose  long  silence  and 
subsequent  death  she  had  bitterly  deplored, 
had  died  childless:  but  that  she  had  married 
a  second  husband,  by  whom  she  had  the  poor 
orphan  in  question,  and  had  lived  many  years 
in  sorrow  and  obscurity,  the  result  of  this  im- 
prudent marriage;— resolving,  however,  in  order 
to  avoid  accidents,  that  Fanny's  visit  should 
not  be  of  long  duration.  In  the  meanwhile 
they  confided  in  the  security  afforded  them  by 
what  may  be  called  their  "passive  lie  of  in- 
terest." But,  in  order  to  make  "assurance 
doubly  sure,"  they  Tiad  also  recourse  to  the 
"active  lie  of  interest;"  and,  in  order  to 
frighten  Fanny  from  ever  daring  to  inform 
their  visitor  that  she  was  the  child  of  Fanny 
Beaumont,  they  assured  her  that  that  lady 
was  so  enraged  against  her  poor  mother,  for 
having  married  her  unworthy  father,  that  no 
one  dared  to  mention  her  name  to  her;  as  it 
never  failed  to  draw  from  her  the  most  violent 
abuse  of  her  once  dearest  friend.  "And  you 
know,  Fanny,"  they  took  care  to  add,  "that 
you  could  not  bear  to  hear  your  poor  mother 
abused." — "No;  that  I  could  not,  indeed," 
was  the  weeping  girl's  answer;  and  the  Living- 
stones felt  safe  and  satisfied.  However,  it 
still  might  not  be  amiss  to  make  the  old  lady 
dislike  Fanny,  if  they  could ;  and  they  con- 
trived to  render  the  poor  girl's  virtue  the 
means  of  doing  her  injury. 

Fanny's  mother  could  not  bequeath  much 
money  to  her  child;  but  she  had  endeavoured 


to  enrich  her  with  principles  and  piety.  Above 
all,  she  had  impressed  her  with  the  strictest 
regard  for  truth; — and  the  Livingstones  art- 
fully contrived  to  make  her  integrity  the  means 
of  displeasing  their  East  Indian  friend. 

This  good  old  lady's  chief  failing  was  believ- 
ing implicitly  whatever  was  said  in  her  com- 
mendation: not  that  she  loved  flattery,  but 
that  she  liked  to  believe  she  had  conciliated 
good-will ;  and  that,  being  sincere  herself,  she 
never  thought  of  distrusting  the  sincerity  of 
others. 

Nor  was  she  at  all  vain  of  her  once  fine 
person,  and  finer  face,  or  improperly  fond  of 
dress.  Still,  from  an  almost  pitiable  degree 
of  bonhommie,  she  allowed  the  Livingstones  to 
dress  her  as  they  liked ;  and,  as  they  chose  to 
make  her  wear  fashionable  and  young-looking 
attire,  in  which  they  declared  that  she  looked 
"so  handsome!  and  so  well!"  she  believed 
they  were  the  best  judges  of  what  was  proper 
for  her,  and  always  replied,  "Well,  dear  friends, 
it  is  entirely  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me ; 
so  dress  me  as  JTOU  please ; "  while  the  Living- 
stones, not  believing  that  it  was  a  matter  of 
indifference,  used  to  laugh,  as  soon  as  she  was 
gone,  at  her  obvious  credulity. 

But  this  ungenerous  and  treacherous  conduct 
excited  such  strong  indignation  in  the  usually 
gentle  Fanny,  that  she  could  not  help  express- 
ing her  sentiments  concerning  it:  and  by  that 
means  made  them  the  more  eager  to  betray  her 
into  offending  their  unsuspicious  friend.  They 
therefore  asked  Fanny,  in  her  presence,  one 
day,  whether  their  dear  guest  did  not  dress 
most  becomingly? 

The  poor  girl  made  sundry  sheepish  and 
awkward  contortions,  now  looking  down,  and 
then  looking  up; — unable  to  lie,  yet  afraid  to 
tell  the  truth. — "  Why  do.  you  not  reply, 
Fanny?"  said  the  artful  questioner.  "Is  she 
not  well  dressed?" — "Not  in  my  opinion," 
faltered  out  the  distressed  girl.  "And  pray, 
Miss  Barnwell,"  said  the  old  lady,  "what  part 
of  my  dress  do  you  disapprove?"  After  a 
pause,  Fanny  took  courage  to  reply,  "All  of  it, 
madam." — "Why?  do  3rou  think  it  too  young 
forme?" — "I  do."  "A  plain-spoken  young 
person  that ! "  she  observed  in  a  tone  of  pique! 
— while  the  Livingstones  exclaimed,  "  Imperti- 
nent! ridiculous!"  and  Fanny  was  glad  to  leave 
the  room,  feeling  excessive  pain  at  having  been 
forced  to  wound  the  feelings  of  one  whom  she 
wished  to  be  permitted  to  love,  because  she 
had  once  been  her  mother's  dearest  friend. 
After  this  scene,  the  Livingstones,  partly  from 
the  love  of  mischief,  and  partly  from  the  love 
of  fun,  used  to  put  similar  questions  to  Fanny, 


THE  SCREEN. 


275 


in  the  old  lady's  presence,  till,  at  last,  displeased 
and  indignant  at  her  bluntnessand  ill-breeding, 
she  scarcely  noticed  or  spoke  to  her.  In  the 
meanwhile  Cecilia  Livingstone  became  an  ob- 
ject of  increasing  interest  to  her;  for  she  had 
a  lover  to  whom  she  was  greatly  attached,  but 
who  would  not  be  in  a  siti.ation  to  marry  for 
m  my  years. 

This  young  man  was  frequently  at  the  house, 
and  was  as  polite  and  attentive  to  the  old  lady, 
when  she  was  present,  as  the  rest  of  the  family; 
but,  like  them,  he  was  ever  ready  to  indulge 
in  a  laugh  at  her  credulous  simplicity,  and 
especially  at  her  continually  expressing  her 
belief,  as  well  as  her  hopes,  that  they  were  all 
beginning' to  think  less  of  the  present  world, 
and  more  of  the  next ;  and  as  Lawrie,  as  well 
as  the  Livingstones,  possessed  no  inconsiderable 
power  of  mimicry,  they  exercised  them  with 
great  effect  on  the  manner  and  tones  of  her 
whom  they  called  the  over- dressed  saint,  unre- 
strained, alas !  by  the  consciousness  that  she 
was  their  present,  and  would,  as  they  expected, 
be  their  future  benefactress. 

That  confiding  and  unsuspecting  being  was 
meanwhile  considering  that,  though  her  health 
was  injured  by  a  long  residence  in  a  warm 
climate,  she  might  still  live  many  years;  and 
that,  as  Cecilia  might  not  therefore  possess  the 
fortune  which  she  had  bequeathed  to  her  till 
"youth  and  genial  years  were  flown,"  it  would 
be  better  to  give  it  to  her  during  her  lifetime. 
"I  will  do  so,"  she  said  to  herself  (tears  rush- 
ing into  her  eyes  as  she  thought  of  the  happi- 
ness which  she  was  going  to  impart),  "and 
then  the  young  people  can  marry  directly  !" 

She  took  this  resolution  one  day  when  the 
Livingstones  believed  that  she  had  left  her 
home  on  a  visit.  Consequently,  having  no 
expectation  of  seeing  her  for  some  time,  they 
had  taken  advantage  of  her  long  vainlj'-ex- 
pected  absence  to  make  some  engagements 
which  they  knew  she  would  have  excessively 
disapproved.  But  though,  as  yet,  they  knew 
it  not,  the  old  lady  had  been  forced  to  put  off 
her  visit;  a  circumstance  which  she  did  not 
at  all  regret,  as  it  enabled  her  to  go  sooner  on 
her  benevolent  errand. 

The  engagement  of  the  Livingstones  for  that 
lay  was  a  rehearsal  of  a  private  play  at  their 
house,  which  they  were  afterwards,  and  during 
their  saintly  friend's  absence,  to  perform  at 
the  house  of  a  friend;  and  a  large  room  called 
the  library,  in  which  there  was  a  wide  commo- 
dious screen,  was  selected  as  the  scene  of  action. 

Fanny  Barn  well,  who  disliked  private  and 
other  theatricals  as  much  as  their  old  friend 
herself,  was  to  have  no  part  in  the  performance; 


but,  as  they  were  disappointed  of  their  prompter 
that  evening,  she  was,  though  with  great 
difficulty,  persuaded  to  perform  the  office,  for 
that  night  only. 

It  was  to  be  a  dress  rehearsal ;  and  the  par- 
ties were  in  the  midst  of  adorning  themselves, 
when,  to  their  great  consternation,  they  saw 
their  supposed  distant  friend  coming  up  th* 
street,  and  evidently  intending  them  a  visit. 
What  was  to  be  done?  To  admit  her  was  im- 
possible. They  therefore  called  up  a  new  ser- 
vant, who  only  came  to  them  the  day  before, 
and  who  did  not  know  the  worldly  consequence 
of  their  unwelcome  guest ;  and  Cecilia  said  to 
her,  ' '  You  see  that  old  lady  yonder ;  when  she 
knocks,  be  sure  you  say  that  we  are  not  at 
home;  and  you  had  better  add,  that  we  shall 
not  be  home  till  bed-time;"  thus  adding  the 
lie  of  CONVENIENCE  to  other  deceptions.  Ac- 
cordingly, when  she  knocked  at  the  door,  the 
girl  spoke  as  she  was  desired  to  do,  or  rather 
she  improved  upon  it ;  for  she  said  that  her 
ladies  had  been  out  all  day,  and  would  not 
return  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning." — 
"Indeed!  that  is  unfortunate;"  said  their 
disappointed  visitor,  stopping  to  deliberate 
whether  she  should  not  leave  a  note  of  agree- 
able surprise  for  Cecilia;  but  the  girl,  who 
held  the  door  in  her  hand,  seemed  so  impatient 
to  get  rid  of  her,  that  she  resolved  not  to  write, 
and  then  turned  away. 

The  girl  was  really  in  haste  to  return  to  the 
kitchen;  for  sJie  was  gossiping  with  an  old 
fellow-servant.  She  therefore  neglected  to  go 
back  to  her  anxious  employers;  but  Cecilia 
ran  down  the  back-stairs,  to  interrogate  her, 
exclaiming,  "Well ;  what  did  she  say  ?  I  hope 
she  did  not  suspect  that  we  were  at  home." 
"No,  to  be  sure  not,  miss; — how  should  she? 
— for  I  said  even  more  than  you  told  me  to 
say,"  repeating  her  additions;  being  eager  to 
prove  her  claim  to  the  confidence  of  her  new 
mistress.  "But  are  you  sure  that  she  is  really 
gone  from  the  door?" — "To  be  sure,  miss." — 
"Still,  I  wish  you  could  go  and  see;  because 
we  have  not  seen  her  pass  the  window,  though 
we  heard  the  door  shut." — "Dear  me,  miss, 
how  should  you?  for  I  looked  out  after  her, 
and  I  saw  her  go  down  the  street  under  the 
windows,  and  turn  .  .  .  yes, —  I  am  sure 
that  I  saw  her  turn  into  a  shop."  But  the 
truth  was,  that  the  girl,  little  aware  of  the 
importance  of  this  unwelcome  lady,  and  con- 
cluding she  could  not  be  a  friend,  but  merely 
some  troublesome  nobody,  showed  her  contempt 
and  her  anger  at  being  detained  so  long,  by 
throwing  to  the  street-door  with  such  violence, 
that  it  did  not  really  close;  and  the  old  lady, 


276 


THE  SCREEN. 


who  had  ordered  her  carriage  to  come  for  her 
at  a  certain  Jiour,  and  was  determined,  on 
second  thoughts,  to  sit  down  and  wait  for  it, 
was  able,  unheard,  to  push  open  the  door,  and 
to  enter  the  library  unpe.rceived; — for  the  girl 
lied  to  those  who  bade  her  lie,  when  she  said 
that  she  saw  her  walk  away. 

In  that  room  Mrs.  Atheling  found  a  sofa; 
and  though  she  wondered  at  seeing  a  large 
screen  opened  before  it;  she  seated  herself  on 
it,  and,  being  fatigued  with  her  walk,  soon 
fell  asleep.  But  her  slumber  was  broken  very 
unpleasantly ;  for  she  heard,  as  she  awoke,  the 
following  dialogue,  on  the  entrance  of  Cecilia 
and  her  lover,  accompanied  by  Fanny.  "Well 
— I  am  so  glad  we  got  rid  of  Mrs.  Atheling  so 
easily!"  cried  Cecilia.  "That  new  girl  seems 
apt.  Some  servants  deny  one  so  as  to  show 
one  is  at  home." — "I  should  like  them  the 
better  for  it,"  said  Fanny.  "I  hate  to  see 
any  one  ready  at  telling  a  falsehood." — "Poor 
little  conscientious  dear!"  said  the  lover, 
mimicking  her,  "one  would  think  the  dressed- 
up  saint  has  made  you  as  methodistical  as  her- 
self." "What,  I  suppose,  Miss  Fanny,  you 
would  have  had  us  let  the  old  quiz  in." — "To 
be  sure  I  would ;  and  I  wonder  you  could  be 
denied  to  so  kind  a  friend.  Poor  dear  Mrs. 
Atheling!  how  hurt  she  would  be,  if  she  knew 
you  were  at  home  ! " —  "Poor  dear,  indeed  !  Do 
not  be  so  affected,  Fanny.  How  should  you 
care  for  Mrs.  Atheling,  when  you  know  that 
she  dislikes  you!"— "Dislikes  me!  Oh  yes;  I 
fear  she  does! " — "I  am  sure  she  does,"  replied 
Cecilia;  "for  you  are  downright  rude  to  her. 
Did  you  not  say,  only  the  day  before  yesterday, 
when  she  said,  '  There,  Miss  Barnwell,  I  hope 
I  have  at  last  gotten  a  cap  which  you  like.'— 
'No;  I  am  sorry  to  say  you  have  not?' " — "To 
be  sure  I  did; — I  could  not  tell  a  falsehood, 
even  to  please  Mrs.  Atheling,  though  she  was 
my  own  dear  mother's  dearest  friend. " — "Your 
mother's  friend,  Fanny !  I  never  heard  that 
before;"  said  the  lover.  "Did  you  not  know 
that,  Alfred!"  said  Cecilia;  eagerly  adding, 
"but  Mrs.  Athelinfj  does  not  know  it;"  giving 
him  a  meaning  look,  as  if  to  say,  "and  do  not 
you  tell  her." — "Would  she  'did  know  it!" 
said  Fanny  mournfully,  "for  though  I  dare 
not  tell  her  so,  lest  she  should  abuse  my  poor 
mother,  as  you  say  she  would,  Cecilia,  because 
she  was  so  angry  at  her  marriage  with  my 
misguided  father,  still  I  think  she  would  look 
kindly  on  her  once  dear  friend's  orphan  child, 
and  like  me,  in  spite  of  my  honesty." — "No, 
no,  silly  girl;  honesty  is  usually  its  own  re- 
ward. Alfred,  what  do  you  think?  Our  old 
friend,  who  is  not  very  penetrating,  said  one 


day  to  her,  '  I  suppose  you  think  my  caps  too 
young  for  me;'  and  that  true  young  person 
replied,  'Yes,  madam,  I  do.'" — "And  would 
do  so  again,  Cecilia; — and  it  was  far  more 
friendly  and  kind  to  say  so  than  flatter  her  on 
her  dress,  as  you  do,  and  then  laugh  at  her 
when  her  back  is  turned.  I  hate  to  hear  any 
one  mimicked  and  laughed  at ;  and  more 
especially  my  mamma's  old  friend." — "Thefe, 
there,  child !  your  sentimentality  makes  me 
sick.  But  come;  let  us  begin." — "Yes,"  cried 
Alfred,  "let  us  rehearse  a  little,  before  the 
rest  of  the  party  come.  I  should  like  to  hear 
Mrs.  Atheling's  exclamations,  if  she  knew 
what  we  were  doing.  She  would  say  thus : " 
.  .  .  Here  he  gave  a  most  accurate  repre- 
sentation of  the  poor  old  lady's  voice  and 
manner,  and  her  fancied  abuse  of  private 
theatricals,  while  Cecilia  cried,  "Bravo!  bravo!" 
and  Fanny,  "Shame!  shame!"  till  the  other 
Livingstones,  and  the  rest  of  the  company, 
who  now  entered,  drowned  her  cry  in  their 
loud  applauses  and  louder  laughter. 

The  old  lady,  whom  surprise,  anger,  and 
wounded  sensibility  had  hitherto  kept  silent 
and  still  in  her  involuntary  hiding-place,  now 
rose  up,  and,  mounting  on  the  sofa,  looked 
over  the  top  of  the  screen,  full  of  reproachful 
meaning,  on  the  conscious  offenders! 

What  a  moment,  to  them,  of  overwhelm- 
ing surprise  and  consternation  !  The  cheeks, 
flushed  with  malicious  triumph  and  satirical 
pleasure,  became  covered  with  the  deeper  blush 
of  detected  treachery,  or  pale  with  fear  of  its 
consequences; — and  the  eyes,  so  lately  beam- 
ing with  ungenerous  satisfaction,  were  now 
cast  with  painful  shame  upon  the  ground, 
unable  to  meet  the  justly  indignant  glance 
of  her  whose  kindness  they  had  repaid  with 
such  palpable  and  base  ingratitude!  "An  ad- 
mirable likeness  indeed,  Lawrie,"  said  their 
undeceived  dupe,  breaking  her  perturbed 
silence,  and  coming  down  from  her  elevation ; 
"but  it  will  cost  you  more  than  you  are  at 
present  aware  of. — But  who  art  thou?"  she 
added,  addressing  Fanny  (who  though  it  might 
have  been  a  moment  of  triumph  to  her,  felt 
and  looked  as  if  she  had  been  a  sharer  in  the 
guilt),  "Who  art  thou,  my  honourable,  kind 
girl?  And  who  was  your  mother?" — "Your 
Fanny  Beaumont,"  replied  the  quick  -feeling 
orphan,  bursting  into  tears.  "Fanny  Beau- 
mont's child!  and  it  was  concealed  from  me!" 
said  she,  folding  the  weeping  girl  to  her  heart. 
"But  it  was  all  of  a  piece: — all  treachery  and 
insincerity,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 
However,  I  am  undeceived  before  it  is  too  late." 
She  then  disclosed  to  the  detected  family  her 


THE   SEVEN   SISTERS. 


277 


generous  motive  for  the  unexpected  visit;  and 
declared  her  thankfulness  for  Avhat  had  taken 
place,  as  far  as  she  was  herself  concerned; 
though  she  could  not  but  deplore,  as  a  Chris- 
tian, the  discovered  turpitude  of  those  whom 
she  had  fondly  loved. 

"I  have  now,"  she  continued,  "to  make 
amends  to  one  whom  I  have  hitherto  not 
treated  kindly  ;  but  I  have  at  length  been 
enabled  to  discover  an  undeserved  friend, 
amidst  undeserved  foes.  .  .  .  My  dear  child," 
added  she,  parting  Fanny's  dark  ringlets,  and 
gazing  tearfully  in  her  face,  "I  must  have 
been  blind,  as  well  as  blinded,  not  to  see  your 
likeness  to  your  dear  mother. — Will  you  live 
with  me,  Fanny,  and  be  unto  me  as  a 
DAUGHTER?" — "Oh,  most  gladly!"  was  the 
eager  and  agitated  reply. — "You  artful  crea- 
ture!" exclaimed  Cecilia,  pale  with  rage  and 
mortification,  "you  knew  very  well  she  was 
behind  the  screen." — "I  know  that  she  could 
not  know  it,"  replied  the  old  lady;  "and  you, 
Miss  Livingstone,  assert  what  you  do  not  your- 
self believe.  But  come,  Fanny,  let  us  go  and 
meet  rny  carriage;  for,  no  doubt,  your  presence 
here  is  now  as  unwelcome  as  mine."  But 
Fanny  lingered,  as  if  reluctant  to  depart.  She 
could  not  bear  to  leave  the  Livingstones  in 
anger.  They  had  been  kind  to  her;  and  she 
would  fain  have  parted  with  them  affectionately ; 
but  they  all  preserved  a  sullen,  indignant 
silence,  and  scornfully  repelled  her  advances. 
— "You  see  that  you  must  not  tarry  here,  my 
good  girl,"  observed  the  old  lady,  smiling ; 
"so  let  us  depart."  They  did  so;  leaving  the 
Livingstones  and  the  lover,  not  deploring  their 
fault,  but  lamenting  their  detection;— lament- 
ing also  the  hour  when  they  added  the  lies  of 
CONVENIENCE  to  their  other  deceptions,  and 
had  thereby  enabled  their  unsuspecting  dupe 
to  detect  those  falsehoods,  the  result  of  their 
avaricious  fears,  which  may  be  justly  entitled 

the  LIES  OF  INTEREST. 


THE   SEVEN   SISTERS. 

Seven  daughters  had  Lord  Archibald 

All  children  of  one  mother : 

I  could  not  say  in  one  short  day 

What  love  they  bore  each  other. 

A  garland  of  seven  lilies  wrought ! 

Seven  sisters  that  together  dwell ; 

But  he — bold  knight  as  ever  fought — 

Their  father— took  of  them  no  thought, 

He  loved  the  wars  so  well. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 

The  solitude  of  Binuorie. 


Fresh  blows  the  wind,  a  western  wind, 

And  from  the  shores  of  Erin, 

Across  the  wave  a  rover  brave 

To  Binnorie  is  steering : 

Right  onward  to  the  Scottish  strand 

The  gallant  ship  is  borne  ; 

The  warriors  leap  upon  the  land, 

And  hark  !  the  leader  of  the  band 

Hath  blown  his  bugle  horn. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh !  mournfully. 

The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 

Beside  a  grotto  of  their  own, 
With  boughs  above  them  closing, 
The  Seven  are  laid,  and  in  the  shade 
They  lie  like  fawns  reposing. 
But  now,  upstarting  with  affright 
At  noise  of  man  and  steed, 
Away  they  fly  to  left,  to  right—- 
Of your  fair  household,  Father  Knight, 
Methinks  you  take  small  heed! 
Sing,  mournfully,  oh !  mournfully, 
The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 

Away  the  seven  fair  Campbells  fly, 

And,  over  hill  and  hollow, 

With  menace  proud,  and  insult  loud, 

The  Irish  rovers  follow. 

Cried  they,  "  Your  father  loves  to  roam : 

Enough  for  him  to  find 

The  empty  house  when  he  comes  home ; 

For  us  your  yellow  ring'ets  comb, 

For  us  be  fair  and  kind  !  " 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 

The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 

Some  close  behind,  some  side  by  side, 

Like  clouds  in  stormy  weather, 

They  run,  and  cry,  "Nay  let  us  die, 

And  let  us  die  together." 

A  lake  was  near,  the  shore  was  steep, 

There  never  foot  had  been ; 

They  ran,  and  with  a  desperate  leap 

Together  plunged  into  the  deep, 

Nor  ever  more  were  seen. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh !  mournfully, 

The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 

The  stream  that  flows  out  of  the  lake, 
As  through  the  glen  it  rambles, 
Repeats  a  moan  o'er  moss  and  stone, 
For  those  seven  lovely  Campbells. 
Seven  little  islands,  green  and  bare, 
Have  risen  from  out  the  deep : 
The  fishers  say,  those  sisters  fair 
By  fairies  are  all  buried  there, 
And  there  together  sleep. 
Sing,  mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 
The  solitude  of  Binuorie. 

WORDSWORTH. 


278 


MY  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD. 


THE  MOTHER'S  HEART. 

[Hon.  Mrs  Caroline  E.  S.  Norton,  bom  1808. 
She  is  the  grand-daughter  of  Richard  Brmsley  Sheridan, 
Her  first  literary  efforts  were  produced  in  1829,  and 
since  that  period  she  has  distinguished  herself  in  poetry 
and  fiction.  Her  latest  works  are  TUe  Lady  vf  IM 
Garaye,  a  poem;  and  Old  Sir  Doa.ylas,  a  novel.] 

When  first  thou  came.it  gentle,  shy,  and  fond. 

My  eldest-born,  first  hoi>e,  and  dearest  treasure, 
My  heart  received  thee  with  a  joy  beyond 

All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  eirthly  pleasure; 
Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 
So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I  felt  for  thee. 

Faithful  and  fond,  with  sense  beyond  thy  years, 
And  natural  piety  that  lean'd  to  heaven  ; 

Wrung  by  a  harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears, 
Yet  patient  of  rebuke  when  just'y  given : 

Obedient — easy  to  be  reconciled : 

And  meekly  cheerful,— such  wert  thou,  my  c'..rd! 

Not  willing  to  be  left ;  still  by  my  side 

Haunting  my  walks,  while  summer  d  iy  was  dying : 
Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn :  but  pleased  to  glide 

Through  the  dark  room  where  I  was  sadly  lying, 
Or  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a  sitter  meek. 
Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  feverish  cheek. 

Oh  !  boy,  of  such  as  thou  art  oftenest  made 
Earth's  fragile  idols ;  like  a  tender  flower 

No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness, — prone  to  fade. — 
And  bending  weakly  to  the  thunder  shower ; 

Still  round  the  loved  thy  he.irt  fonud  force  to  bind, 

And  clung,  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the  wind! 

Then  THOU,  my  merry  love ; — bold  in  the  glee, 
Under  the  bough,  or  by  the  firelight  d  ineing, 

With  thy  sweet  temper,  and  thy  s  lirit  free. 
Didst  come,  as  restless  as  a  bird's  wing  glancing, 

Full  of  a  wild  and  irrepressible  mirth. 

Like  a  young  sunbeam  to  the  gladden' d  earth! 

Thine  was  the  shout !  the  swig !  the  burst  of  joy ! 

Which  sweet  from  childhood's  rosy  lip  resoundeth  ; 
Thine  was  the  eager  spirit  nought  could  cloy. 

And  the  glad  heart  from  which  all  grief  reboundeth, 
And  many  a  mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply, 
Lurk'd  in  the  laughter  of  thy  dark  blue  eye! 

Anil  thine  was  many  an  art  to  win  and  bless, 
The  cold  and  stern  to  joy  and  fondness  warming; 

The  coaxing  smile : — the  frequent  soft  caress ;  — 
The  earnest  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  disarming! 

Again  my  heart  a  new  affection  found  ; 

But  thought  that  love  with  tliee  had  reach'd  its  bound. 

At  length  THOU  earnest;  thou.  the  last  and  least ; 

Nick-named  "theemperor,"  by  thy  laughing  brothers, 
Because  a  haughty  spirit  swell'd  thy  breast, 

And  thou  didst  seek  to  rule  and  sway  the  others ; 
Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile 
A  mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile : — 


And  oh !  most  like  a  regal  child  wert  thou ! 
An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  scheming; 

Fair  shoulders — curling  lip— and  dauntless  brow- 
Fit  for  the  world's  strife,  not  poet's  dreaming ; 

And  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head. 

And  the  firm  bearing  of  thy  conscious  tread. 

Different  from  both  !    Yet  each  succeeding  claim, 
I,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswearing, 

Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same ; 
Nor  injured  either,  by  this  love's  comparing: 

Nor  stole  a  fraction  for  the  newer  call, — 

But  in  the  mother's  heart  found  room  for  ALL  ! 


MY  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD. 

I  know  a  story,  fairer,  dimmer,  sadder, 

Thau  any  story  painted  in  your  books. 
You  are  so  glad?    It  will  not  make  you  gladder; 

Yet  listen,  with  your  pretty  restless  looks. 

"  Is  it  a  fairy  story  ?''     Well,  half  fairy— 

At  least  it  dates  far  back  as  fairies  do, 
And  seems  to  me  as  beautiful  and  airy ; 

Yet  half,  perhaps  the  fairy  half,  is  true. 

You  had  a  baby  sister  and  a  brother, 

Two  very  dainty  people,  rosy  white, 
Sweeter  than  all  things  else  except  each  other  1 

Older  yet  younger — gone  from  human  sight ! 

And  I.  who  loved  them,  and  shall  love  them  ever. 
And  think  with  yearning  tears  how  each  light  hand 

Crept  toward  bright  bloom  and  l>erries— I  shall  never 
Know  how  I  lost  them.     Do  you  understand  t 

Poor  slightly  golden  heads !    I  think  I  missed  them 
First  in  some  dreamy,  piteous,  doubtful  way ; 

But  when  and  where  with  lingering  lips  I  kissed  them, 
My  gradual  parting,  I  can  never  say. 

Sometimes  I  fancy  that  they  may  have  perished 
In  shadowy  quiet  of  wet  rocks  and  moss. 

Near  paths  whose  very  pebbles  I  have  cherished, 
For  their  small  sakes,  since  my  most  bitter  loss. 

I  fancy,  too,  that  they  were  softly  covered 
By  robins,  out  of  apple  flowers  they  knew. 

Whose  nursing  wings  in  far  home  sunshine  hovered. 
Before  the  timid  world  had  dropped  the  dew. 

Their  names  were — what  yours  are.   At  this  you  wonder. 

Their  jiictures  are— your  own,  as  you  have  seen; 
And  my  bird-buried  darlings,  hidden  under 

Lost  leaves — why,  it  is  your  dead  selves  I  mean! 

SARAH  M.  B.  Pi  ATT.1 


1  Mrs.  Piatt  was  born  at  Lexington.  U.S  ,  in  ".835. 
She  is  a  contributor  to  the  principal  American  maga- 
zines, and  was  joint  author,  with  her  husband,  of  Til* 
Easts  at  Washington  and  other  fuenn,  Is04. 


MARTHA    THE    GIPSY. 


279 


MARTHA   THE   GIPSY. 

[Theodore  Edward  Hook,  born  in  London,  22d  Sep- 
tember, 1788  ;  died  at  Fulhara,  24th  August,  1841.  He 
was  the  author  of  sixteen  novels  and  numerous  other 
works.  Maxwell,  Jack  Brag,  and  Gilbert  Gurney — the 
latter  is  autobiographical — are  considered  his  best 
novels.  It  was  as  a  wit  and  a  practical  joker  that  lie 
made  the  greatest  reputation,  and  in  this  character  lie 
won  the  [uitronage  of  the  Prince  Regent,  who  secured 
for  him  in  18 1 2  the  appointment  of  accountant-gen- 
eral and  treasurer  at  the  Mauritius.  Hook  had  no 
knowledge  of  accounts,  and  in  1819  he  was  obliged  to 
return  to  England,  as  a  deficiency  of  about  £12,000  was 
discovered  in  the  treasury,  and  the  government  claimed 
repayment  from  the  treasurer.  A  friend  hoped  that  he 
had  not  been  obliged  to  come  home  on  account  of  ill 
health;  Hook  regretted  to  say  "they  think  there  is 
something  wrong  in  the  chest."  He  was  quite  unable 
to  refund  the  money ;  but  the  prosecution  was  not 
pressed  until  after  he  had  made  himself  obnoxious  to 
the  Whig  party  by  his  articles  in  the  John  Bull,  of  which 
he  was  the  editor,  and  in  1S24  he  was  imprisoned  for 
the  debt.  He  was  discharged  in  1825,  and  continued  a 
brilliant  but  sad  career  as  the  reigning  wit  of  society. 
The  last  dinner-party  he  attended  was  in  July,  1841, 
when  he  looked  at  himself  in  a  mirror  and  said,  "Aye, 
I  see,  I  look  as  I  am — done  up,  in  purse,  in  mind,  and 
in  body,  too,  at  last."  His  powers  as  an  improvisatore 
are  reported  to  have  been  marvellous. 'J 


-These  midnight  hags, 


By  force  of  potent  spells,  of  bloody  characters 
And  con j urations.  horrible  to  hear, 
Call  fiends  and  spectres  from  the  yawning  deep, 
And  set  the  ministers  of  hell  to  work. 

London  may  appear  an  unbefitting  scene  for 
a  story  so  romantic  as  that  which  I  have  here 
set  down:  but,  strange  and  wili  as  is  the  tale 
I  have  to  tell,  it  is  true;  and  therefore  the 
scene  of  action  shall  not  be  changed;  nor  will 
I  alter  nor  vary  from  the  truth,  save  that  the 
names  of  the  personages  in  my  domestic  drama 
shall  be  fictitious.  To  say  that  I  am  super- 
stitious would  be,  in  the  minds  of  many  wise 
personages,  to  write  myself  down  an  ass ;  but 
to  say  that  I  do  not  believe  that  which  follows, 
as  I  am  sure  it  was  believed  by  him  who  re- 
lated it  to  me,  would  be  to  discredit  the  testi- 
mony of  a  friend  as  honourable  and  brave  as 


1  In  his  recently  published  Book  of  Memories,  Mr. 
S.  C.  Hall  tells  the  following  pathetic  anecdote.  At  a 
party  during  Hook's  latter  years,  of  which  he  had  been 
the  mainspring  of  mirth  throughout  the  night,  he  was 
seated  at  the  piano  sustaining  the  fun  to  the  last.  A 
servant  opened  the  shutters  and  the  morning  light 
shone  upon  the  wit  and  a  fair-haired  boy  who  was  stand- 
ing beside  him.  Hook  paused,  laid  his  hand  on  the 
boy's  head,  and  in  tremulous  tones  improvised  a  verse, 
of  which  these  were  the  concluding  lines : — 

"  For  you  is  the  dawn  of  the  morning, 
For  me  is  the  solemn  good-night." 


ever  trod  the  earth.  He  has  been  snatched 
from  the  world,  of  which  he  was  a  bright  orna- 
ment, and  has  left  more  than  his  sweet  suffer- 
ing widow  and  his  orphan  children  affectionately 
to  deplore  his  loss.  It  is,  I  find,  right  and  judi- 
cious most  carefully  and  publicly  to  disavow  a 
belief  in  supernatural  visitings;  but  it  will  be 
long  before  I  become  either  so  wise  or  so  bold  as 
to  make  any  such  unqualified  declaration.  I  am 
not  weak  enough  to  imagine  myself  surrounded 
by  spirits  and  phantoms,  or  jostling  through  a 
crowd  of  spectres  as  I  walk  the  streets;  neither 
do  I  give  credence  to  all  the  idle  tales  of 
ancient  dames,  or  frightened  children,  touch- 
ing such  matters:  but  when  I  breathe  the  air, 
and  see  the  grass  grow  under  my  feet,  I  cannot 
but  feel  that  He  who  gives  me  power  to  inhale 
the  one,  or  stand  erect  upon  the  other,  has 
also  the  power  to  use,  for  special  purposes,  such 
means  and  agency  as  he  in  his  wisdom  may 
see  fit;  and  which,  in  point  of  fact,  are  not 
more  incomprehensible  to  us,  than  the  very 
simplest  effects  which  we  every  day  witness, 
arising  from  unknown  causes.  Philosophers 
may  pore,  and,  in  the  might  of  their  littleness, 
and  the  erudition  of  their  ignorance,  develop 
and  disclose,  argue  and  discuss;  but  when  the 
sage,  who  sneers  at  the  possibility  of  ghosts, 
will  explain  to  me  the  doctrine  of  attraction  and 
gravitation,  or  tell  me  why  the  wind  blows, 
why  the  tides  ebb  and  flow,  or  why  the  light 
shines — effects  perceptible  by  all  men — then 
will  I  admit  the  justice  of  his  incredulity- 
then  will  I  join  the  ranks  of  the  incredulous. 
However,  a  truce  with  my  views  and  reflections: 
proceed  we  to  the  narrative. 

In  the  vicinity  of  Bedford  Square  lived  a 
respectable  and  honest  man,  whose  name  the 
reader  will  be  pleased  to  consider  Harding. 
He  had  married  early;  his  wife  was  an  exem- 
plary woman;  and  his  son  and  daughter  were 
grown  into  that  companionable  age  at  which 
children  repay,  with  their  society  and  accom- 
plishments, the  tender  cares  which  parents 
bestow  upon  their  offspring  in  their  early  in- 
fancy. Mr.  Harding  held  a  responsible  and 
respectable  situation  under  government,  in  an 
office  in  Somerset  House.  His  income  was 
adequate  to  all  his  wants  and  wishes;  his  family 
was  a  family  of  love ;  and  perhaps,  taking 
into  consideration  the  limited  desires  of  what 
may  be  fairly  called  middling  life,  no  man  was 
ever  more  contented  or  better  satisfied  with  his 
lot  than  he.  Maria  Harding,  his  daughter,  was 
a  modest,  unassuming,  and  interesting  girl,  full 
of  feeling  and  gentleness.  She  was  timid  and 
retiring;  but  the  modesty  which  cast  down  her 


280 


MARTHA  THE  GIPSY. 


fine  black  eyes,  could  not  veil  the  intellect 
wiiich  beamed  in  them.  Her  health  was  by 
no  means  strong ;  and  the  paleness  of  her  cheek 
• — too  frequently,  alas  !  lighted  by  the  hectic 
flush  of  her  indigenous  complaint — gave  a  deep 
interest  to  her  countenance.  She  was  watched 
and  reared  by  her  tender  mother,  with  all  the 
care  and  attention  which  a  being  so  delicate 
and  so  ill-suited  to  the  perils  and  troubles  of 
this  world,  demanded.  George,  her  brother, 
was  a  bold  and  intelligent  lad,  full  of  rude 
health  and  fearless  independence.  His  char- 
acter was  frequently  the  subject  of  his  father's 
contemplation,  and  he  saw  in  his  disposition, 
his  mind,  his  pursuits  and  propensities,  the 
promise  of  future  success  in  active  life.  With 
these  children,  possessing  as  they  did  the  most 
enviable  characteristics  of  their  respective  sexes, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harding,  with  thankfulness  to 
Providence,  acknowledged  their  happiness  and 
their  perfect  satisfaction  with  the  portion  as- 
signed to  them  in  this  transitory  world. 

Maria  was  about  nineteen,  and  had,  as  was 
natural,  attracted  the  regards  and  thence  grad- 
ually chained  the  affections  of  a  distant  relative, 
whose  ample  fortune,  added  to  his  personal  and 
mental  good  qualities,  rendered  him  a  most 
acceptable  suitor  to  her  parents,  which  Maria's 
heart  silently  acknowledged  he  would  have 
been  to  her,  had  he  been  poor  and  penniless. 
The  father  of  this  intended  husband  of  Maria 
was  a  man  of  importance,  possessing  much 
personal  interest,  through  which  George,  the 
brother  of  his  intended  daughter-in-law,  was 
to  be  placed  in  that  diplomatic  seminary  in 
Downing  Street  whence,  in  due  time,  he  was 
to  rise  through  all  the  grades,  of  office  (which, 
with  his  peculiar  talents,  his  friends,  and 
especially  his  mother,  were  convinced  he  would 
so  ably  fill),  and  at  last  turn  out  an  ambassador, 
as  mighty  and  mysterious  as  my  Lord  Belmont, 
of  whom  probably  my  readers  may  know — 
nothing.  The  parents,  however,  of  young 
Langdale  and  of  Maria  Harding  were  agreed 
that  there  was  no  necessity  for  hastening  the 
alliance  between  their  families,  seeing  that  the 
united  ages  of  the  couple  did  not  exceed  thirty- 
nine  years ;  and  seeing,  moreover,  that  the 
elder  Mr.  Langdale,  for  private  reasons  of  his 
own,  wished  his  son  to  attain  the  age  of  twenty- 
one  before  he  married ;  and  seeing,  moreover 
still,  that  Mrs.  Langdale,  who  was  little  more 
than  six-and-thirty  years  of  age  herself,  had 
reasons,  which  she  also  meant  to  be  private, 
for  seeking  to  delay,  as  much  as  possible,  a 
ceremony,  the  result  of  which,  in  all  proba- 
bility, would  confer  upon  her,  somewhat  too 
early  in  life  to  be  agreeable  to  a  lady  of  her 


habits  and  propensities,  the  formidable  title  of 
grandmamma. 

How  curious  it  is,  when  one  takes  up  a  littlt 
bit  of  society  (as  a  geologist  crumbles  and  twists 
a  bit  of  earth  in  his  hand  to  ascertain  its  char- 
acter and  quality),  to  look  into  the  motives 
and  manoeuvring^  of  all  the  persons  connected 
with  it;  the  various  workings,  the  indefatigable 
labours  which  all  their  little  minds  are  under- 
going to  bring  about  divers  and  sundry  little 
points,  perfectly  unconnected  with  the  great 
end  in  view;  but  which,  for  private  and  hidden 
objects,  each  of  them  is  toiling  to  carry. 
Nobody  but  those  who  really  understood  Mrs. 
Langdale  understood  why  she  so  readily  ac- 
quiesced in  the  desire-  of  her  husband  to  post- 
pone the  marriage  for  another  twelvemonth. 
A  stranger  would  have  seen  only  the  dutiful 
wife  according  with  the  sensible  husband;  but 
I  knew  her,  and  knew  that  there  must  be  more 
than  met  the  eye  or  the  ear  in  that  sympathy 
of  feeling  between  her  and  Mr.  Langdale,  which 
was  not  upon  ordinary  occasions  so  evidently 
displayed.  Like  the  waterman,  who  pulls  one 
way  and  looks  another,  Mrs.  Langdale  aided 
the  entreaties  and  seconded  the  commands  of 
her  loving  spouse,  touching  the  seasonable 
delay  of  which  I  am  speaking;  and  it  was 
agreed,  that  immediately  after  the  coming  of 
age  of  Frederick  Langdale,  and  not  before,  he 
was  to  lead  to  the  hymeneal  altar  the  delicate 
and  timid  Maria  Harding.  The  affair  got 
whispered  about;  George's  fortune  in  life  was 
highly  extolled — Maria's  excessive  happiness 
prophesied  by  everybody  of  their  acquaint- 
ance ;  and  already  had  sundry  younger  ladies, 
daughters  and  nieces  of  those  who  discussed 
these  matters  in  divan  after  dinner,  begun  to 
look  upon  poor  Miss  Harding  with  envy  and 
maliciousness,  and  wonder  what  Mr.  Frederick 
Langdale  could  see  in  her:  she  was  proclaimed 
to  be  insipid,  inanimated,  shy,  bashful,  and 
awkward;  nay,  some  went  so  far  as  to  discover 
she  was  absolutely  awry.  Still,  however,  Fred- 
erick and  Maria  went  loving  on ;  and  their 
hearts  grew  as  one ;  so  truly,  so  fondly  were 
they  attached  to  each  other.  George,  who  was 
somewhat  of  a  plague  to  the  pair  of  lovers,  was 
luckily  at  Oxford,  reading  away  till  his  head 
ached,  to  qualify  himself  for  a  degree  and  the 
distant  duties  of  the  office  whence  he  was  to 
cull  bunches  of  diplomatic  laurels,  and  whence 
were  to  issue  rank  and  title,  and  ribands  and 
crosses  innumerable. 

Things  were  in  this  prosperous  state,  the 
bark  of  life  rolling  gaily  along  before  the 
breeze,  when  Mr.  Harding  was  one  day  pro- 
ceeding from  his  residence  to  his  office  in 


MARTHA  THE  GIPSY. 


281 


Somerset  Place,  and  in  passing  along  Charlotte 
Street,  Bloomsbury,  was  accosted  by  one  of 
those  female  gipsies  who  are  found  begging  in 
the  streets  of  the  metropolis,  and  especially  in 
the  particular  part  of  the  town  in  question. 
"Pray,  remember  poor  Martha  the  Gipsy," 
said  the  woman;  "give  me  a  halfpenny  for 
charity,  sir."  Jtr.  Harding  was  a  subscriber 
to  the  Mendicant  Society,  an  institution  which 
proposes  to  check  beggary  by  the  novel  mode 
of  giving  nothing  to  the  poor:  moreover,  he 
was  a  magistrate — moreover,  he  had  no  change ; 
and  he  desired  the  woman  to  go  about  her 
business.  All  availed  him  nothing;  she  still 
followed  him  and  reiterated  the  piteous  cry, 
"Pray,  remember  poor  Martha  the  Gipsy." 
At  length,  irritated  by  the  perseverance  of  the 
woman — for  even  subordinates  in  government 
hate  to  be  solicited  importunately — Mr.  Hard- 
ing, contrary  to  the  usual  c  istomary  usages 
of  modern  society,  turned  hastily  round  and 
fulminated  an  oath  against  the  supplicating 
vagrant.  "Curse!"  said  Martha:  "have  I 
lived  to  this?  Hark  ye,  man — poor,  weak, 
haughty  man  !  Mark  me,  look  at  me  ! "  He 
did  look  at  her;  ~and  beheld  a  countenance  on 
fire  with  rage.  A  pair  of  eyes,  blacker  than 
jet  and  brighter  than  diamonds,  glared  like 
stars  upon  him;  her  black  hair,  dishevelled, 
hung  over  her  olive  cheeks;  and  a  row  of  teeth, 
whiter  than  the  driven  snow,  displayed  them- 
selves from  between  a  pair  of  coral  lips,  in  a 
dreadful  smile,  a  ghastly  sneer  of  contempt, 
which  mingled  in  her  passion.  Harding  was 
rivetted  to  the  spot;  and  what  between  the 
powerful  fascination  of  her  superhuman  coun- 
tenance and  the  dread  of  a  disturbance,  he 
paused  to  listen  to  her.  "Mark  me,  sir," 
said  Martha;  "you  and  I  shall  meet  again! 
Thrice  shall  you  see  me  before  you  die.  .My 
visitings  will  be  dreadful ;  but  the  third  will 
be  the  last ! " 

There  was  a  solemnity  in  this  appeal  which 
struck  to  his  heart,  coming  as  it  did  only  from 
a  vagrant  outcast.  Passengers  were  approach- 
ing; and  wishing,  he  knew  not  why,  to  soothe 
the  ire  of  the  angry  woman,  he  mechanically 
drew  from  his  pocket  some  silver,  which  he 
tendered  to  her.  "There,  my  good  woman, 
there,"  said  he,  stretching  forth  his  hand. 
"Good  woman!"  retorted  the  hag.  "Money 
now?  I — I  that  have  been  cursed?  'tis  all  too 
late,  proud  gentleman — the  deed  is  done,  the 
curse  be  now  on  you."  Saying  which,  she 
tossed  her  ragged  red  cloak  across  her  shoulder 
and  hurried  from  his  sight,  across  the  street,  by 
the  side  of  the  chapel  into  the  recess  of  St.  Giles'. 
Harding  felt  a  most  extraordinary  sensation: 


he  felt  grieved  that  he  had  spoken  so  harshly 
to  the  poor  creature,  and  returned  his  shillings 
to  his  pocket  with  regret.  Of  course,  fear  of 
the  fulfilment  of  her  predictions  did  not  mingle 
with  any  of  his  feelings  on  the  occasion,  and 
he  proceeded  to  his  office  in  Somerset  House, 
and  performed  all  the  official  duties  of  reading 
the  opposition  newspapers,  discussing  the  lead- 
ing politics  of  the  day  with  the  head  of  another 
department,  and  of  signing  his  name  three 
times  before  four  o'clock.  Martha  the  Gipsy, 
however,  although  he  had  pooh-poolied  her  out 
of  his  memory,  would  ever  and  anon  flash 
across  his  mind :  her  figure  was  indelibly 
stamped  upon  his  recollection,  and  though,  of 
course,  as  I  before  said,  a  man  of  his  firmness 
and  intellect  could  care  nothing,  one  way  or 
another,  for  the  maledictions  of  an  ignorant, 
illiterate  being  like  a  gipsy,  still  his  feelings 
— whence  arising  I  know  not — prompted  him 
to  call  a  hackney-coach  and  proceed  en  vo'ture 
to  his  house,  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  en- 
countering the  metropolitan  sibyl,  under  whose 
forcible  denunciation  he  was  actually  labouring. 

There  is  a  period  in  each  day  of  the  lives  of 
married  people  at  which,  I  am  given  to  un- 
derstand, a  more  than  ordinary  unreserved 
communication  of  facts  and  feelings  takes 
place;  when  all  the  world  is  shut  out,  and  the 
two  beings,  who  are  in  truth  but  only  one, 
commune  together,  freely  and  fully,  upon  the 
occurrences  of  the  past  day.  At  this  period, 
the  else  sacred  secrets  of  the  drawing-room 
coterie,  and  the  tellable  jokes  of  the  after-dinner 
convivial ists,  are  mutually  interchanged  by  the 
fond  pair,  who,  by  the  barbarous  customs  of 
uncivilized  Britain,  have  been  separated  during 
part  of  the  preceding  evening.  Then  it  is  that 
the  husband  informs  his  anxious  consort  how 
he  has  forwarded  his  worldly  views  with  such 
a  man — how  he  has  carried  his  point  in  such  a 
quarter — what  he  thinks  of  the  talents  of  one, 
of  the  character  of  another;  while  the  com- 
municative wife  gives  her  view  of  the  same 
subjects,  founded  upon  what  she  has  gathered 
from  the  individuals  composing  the  female 
cabinet,  and  explains  why  she  thinks  he  must 
have  been  deceived  upon  this  point,  or  misled 
upon  that.  And  thus  in  recounting,  in  arguing, 
in  discussing,  and  descanting,  the  blended  in- 
terests of  the  happy  pair  are  strengthened, 
their  best  hopes  nourished,  and  perhaps  even- 
tually realized. 

A  few  friends  at  dinner  and  some  refreshers 
in  the  evening  had  prevented  Harding  from 
saying  a  word  to  his  beloved  Eliza  about  the 
gipsy;  and  perhaps  till  the  "witching  time," 
which  I  have  attempted  to  define,  he  would 


282 


MARTHA  THE  GIPSY. 


not  have  mentioned  the  occurrence,  even  had 
they  been  alone.  Most  certainly  he  did  not 
think  the  less  of  the  horrible  vision :  and 
when  the  company  had  dispersed  and  the 
affectionate  couple  had  retired  to  rest,  he  stated 
the  circumstance  exactly  as  it  had  occurred, 
and  received  from  his  fair  lady  just  such  an 
answer  as  a  prudent,  intelligent,  and  discreet 
woman  of  sense  would  give  to  such  a  communi- 
cation. She  vindicated  his  original  determin- 
ation not  to  be  imposed  upon — wondered  at 
his  subsequent  willingness  to  give  to  such  an 
undeserving  object,  while  he  had  three  or  four 
soup-tickets  in  his  pocket — was  somewhat  sur- 
prised that  he  had  not  consigned  the  bold  in- 
truder to  the  hands  of  the  beadle — and,  ridicul- 
ing the  impression  which  the  hag's  appearance 
seemed  to  have  made  upon  her  husband's  mind, 
narrated  a  tour  performed  by  herself  with 
some  friends  to  Norwood  when  she  was  a  girl, 
and  when  one  of  those  very  women  had  told  her 
fortune,  not  one  word  of  which  ever  came  true 
• — and,  in  a  discussion  of  Some  length,  animad- 
verting strongly  upon  the  weakness  and  im- 
piety of  putting  faith  in  the  sayings  of  such 
creatures,  she  fell  fast  asleep.  Not  so  Hard- 
ing: he  was  restless  and  worried,  and  felt  that 
he  would  give  the  world  to  be  able  to  recall 
the  curse  which  he  had  rashly  uttered  against 
the  poor  woman.  Helpless  as  she  was  and  in 
distress,  why  did  his  passion  conquer  his  judg- 
ment? Why  did  he  add  to  the  bitterness  of 
refusal  the  sting  of  malediction?  However, 
is  was  useless  to  regret  that  which  was  past — 
and,  wearied  and  mortified  with  his  reflections, 
he  at  length  followed  his  better-half  into  that 
profound  slumber  which  the  length  and  subject 
of  his  harangue  had  so  comfortably  insured 
her.  The  morning  came  and  brightly  beamed 
the  sun — that  is,  as  brightly  as  it  can  beam 
in  London.  The  office  hour  arrived;  and  Mr. 
Harding  proceeded,  not  by  Charlotte  Street,  to 
Somerset  House,  such  was  his  dread  of  seeing 
the  ominous  woman.  It  is  quite  impossible  to 
describe  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by  the 
apprehension  of  encountering  her;  if  he  heard 
a  female  voice  behind  him  in  the  street,  he 
trembled,  and  feared  to  look  round  lest  he 
should  behold  Martha.  In  turning  a  corner 
he  proceeded  carefully  and  cautiously,  lest  he 
should  come  upon  her  unexpectedly;  in  short, 
wherever  he  went,  whatever  he  did,  his  actions, 
his  movements,  his  very  words,  were  controlled 
and  constrained  by  the  horror  of  beholding  her 
again.  The  words  she  had  uttered  rang  in- 
cessantly in  his  ears;  nay,  such  possession  had 
they  taken  of  him,  that  he  had  written  them 
down  and  sealed  the  document  which  contained 


them.  "  Thrice  shall  you  see  me  before  you  die ! 
My  visitings  will  be  dreadful;  but  the  third 
will  be  the  last ! "  "Calais"  was  not  imprinted 
more  deeply  on  our  queen's  heart  than  these 
words  upon  that  of  Harding;  but  he  was 
ashamed  of  the  strength  of  his  feelings,  and 
placed  the  paper  wherein  he  had  recorded  them 
at  the  very  bottom  of  his  desR. 

Meanwhile  Frederick  Langdale  was  unre- 
mitting in  his  attentions  to  Maria;  but,  as  is 
too  often  the  case,  the  bright  sunshine  of  their 
loves  was  clouded.  Her  health,  always  delicate, 
now  appeared  still  more  so,  and  at  times  her 
anxious  parents  felt  a  solicitude  upon  her  ac- 
count, new  to  them;  for  symptoms  of  consump- 
tion had  shown  themselves,  which  the  faculty, 
although  they  spoke  of  them  lightly  to  the 
fond  mother  and  to  the  gentle  patient,  treated 
with  such  care  and  caution,  as  gave  alarm  to 
those  who  could  see  the  progress  of  the  fatal 
disease,  which  was  unnoticed  by  Maria  herself, 
who  anticipated  parties,  and  pleasures,  and 
gaieties  in  the  coming  spring,  which  the  doctors 
thought  it  but  too  probable  she  might  never 
enjoy.  That  Mr.  Langdale' spunctilio,  or  Mrs. 
Langdale's  excessive  desire  for  apparent  juven- 
ility, should  have  induced  the  postponement 
of  Maria's  marriage,  was  indeed  a  melancholy 
circumstance.  The  agitation,  the  surprise, 
the  hope  deferred,  which  weighed  upon  the 
sweet  girl's  mind,  and  that  doubting  dread  of 
something  unexpected,  which  lovers  always 
feel,  bore  down  her  spirits  and  injured  her 
health;  whereas,  had  the  marriage  been  cele- 
brated, the  relief  she  would  have  experienced 
from  all  her  apprehensions,  added  to  the  tour 
of  France  and  Italy,  which  the  happy  couple 
were  to  take  immediately  after  their  union, 
would  have  restored  her  to  health,  while  it  in- 
sured her  happiness.  This,  however,  was  not 
to  be. 

It  was  now  some  three  months  since  poor 
Mr.  Harding's  rencontre  with  Martha ;  and 
habit,  and  time,  and  constant  avocation,  had 
conspired  to  free  his  mind  from  the  dread  she 
at  first  inspired.  Again  he  smiled  and  joked, 
again  he  enjoyed  society,  and  again  dared  to 
take  the  nearest  road  to  Somerset  House;  nay, 
he  had  so  far  recovered  from  the  unaccountable 
terror  he  had  originally  felt,  that  he  went  to 
his  desk,  and,  selecting  the  paper  wherein  he 
had  set  down  the  awful  denunciation  of  the 
hag,  deliberately  tore  it  into  bits  and  witnessed 
its  destruction  in  the  fire  with  something  like 
real  satisfaction,  and  a  determination  never 
more  to  think  upon  so  silly  an  affair. 

Frederick  Langdale  was,  as  usual,  with  his 
betrothed,  and  Mrs.  Harding  enjoying  the 


MARTHA  THE  GIPSY. 


283 


egotism  of  the  lovers  (for,  as  I  said  before, 
lovers  think  their  conversation  the  most  charm- 
ing in  the  world,  because  they  talk  of  nothing 
but  themselves),  when  his  curricle  was  driven 
up  to  the  door  to  convey  him  to  Tattersall's, 
where  his  father  had  commissioned  him  to  look 
at  a  horse,  or  horses,  which  he  intended  to 
purchase;  and  Frederick  was,  of  all  things  in 
the  world,  the  best  possible  judge  of  a  horse. 
To  this  sweeping  dictum  Mr.  Harding,  how- 
ever, was  not  willing  to  assent;  and  therefore, 
in  order  to  have  the  full  advantage  of  two 
heads,  which,  as  the  proverb  says,  are  better 
than  one,  the  worthy  father-in-law  elect  pro- 
posed accompanying  the  youth  to  the  auc- 
tioneer's at  Hyde  Park  Corner,  it  being  one  of 
those  few  privileged  days  when  the  labourers  in 
our  public  offices  make  holiday.  The  proposal 
was  hailed  with  delight  by  the  young  man, 
who,  in  order  to  show  due  deference  to  his 
elder  friend,  gave  the  reins  to  Mr.  Harding, 
and,  bowing  their  adieu  to  the  ladies  at  the 
window,  away  they  went,  the  splendid  cattle 
of  Mr.  Langdale  prancing  and  curvetting,  fire 
flaming  from  their  eyes,  and  smoke  breathing 
from  their  nostrils.  The  elder  gentleman  soon 
found  that  the  horses  were  somewhat  beyond 
his  strength,  even  putting  his  skill  wholly  out  of 
the  question ;  and,  in  turning  into  Russel  Street, 
proposed  giving  the  reins  to  Frederick.  By 
some  misunderstanding  of  words,  in  the  alarm 
which  Harding  felt,  Frederick  did  not  take  the 
reins  which  he  (perfectly  confounded)  tendered 
to  him.  They  slipped  over  the  dashing  iron 
between  the  horses,  who,  thus  freed  from  re- 
straint, reared  wildly  in  the  air,  and,  plunging 
forward,  dashed  the  vehicle  against  a  post  and 
precipitated  Frederick  and  Harding  on  the 
curb-stone :  the  off-horse  kicked  desperately, 
as  the  carriage  became  entangled  and  impeded, 
and  struck  Frederick  a  desperate  blow  on  the 
head.  Harding,  whose  right  arm  and  collar- 
bone were  broken,  raised  himself  on  his  left 
hand  and  saw  Frederick  weltering  in  blood, 
apparently  lifeless,  before  him.  The  infuriated 
animals  again  plunged  forward  with  the  shat- 
tered remnant  of  the  carriage,  and  as  this 
object  was  removed  from  his  sight,  the  wretched 
father-in-law  beheld,  looking  upon  the  scene 
with  a  fixed  and  an  unmoved  countenance — 
MARTHA  THE  GIPSY. 

It  was  doubtful  whether  the  appearance  of 
this  horrible  vision,  coupled  as  it  was  with  the 
verification  of  her  prophecy,  had  not  a  more 
dreadful  effect  upon  Mr.  Harding  than  the 
sad  reality  before  him.  He  trembled,  sickened, 
fainted,  and  fell  senseless  on  the  ground. 
Assistance  was  promptly  procured,  and  the 


wounded  sufferers  were  carefully  removed  to 
their  respective  dwellings.  Frederick  Lang- 
dale's  sufferings  were  much  greater  than  those 
of  his  companion,  and,  in  addition  to  severe 
fractures  of  two  of  his  limbs,  the  wound  upon 
the  head  presented  a  most  terrible  appearance, 
and  excited  the  greatest  alarm  in  his  medical 
attendants.  Mr.  Harding,  whose  temperate 
course  of  life  was  greatly  advantageous  to  his 
case,  had  suffered  comparatively  little;  a  simple 
fracture  of  the  arm  and  dislocation  of  the 
collar-bone  (which  was  the  extent  of  his  mis- 
fortune) were,  by  skilful  treatment  and  im- 
plicit obedience  to  professional  commands,  soon 
pronounced  in  a  state  of  improvement;  but  a 
wound  had  been  inflicted  which  no  doctor 
could  heal.  The  conviction  that  the  woman 
whose  anger  he  had  incurred  had,  if  not  the 
power  of  producing  evil,  at  least  a  prophetic 
spirit,  and  that  he  had  twice  again  to  see  her 
before  the  fulfilment  of  her  prophecy,  struck 
deep  into  his  mind:  and  although  he  felt  him- 
self more  at  ease  when  he  had  communicated 
to  Mrs.  Harding  the  fact  of  having  seen  the 
gipsy  at  the  moment  of  the  accident,  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  rally  from  the  shock 
which  his  nerves  had  received.  It  was  in  vain 
he  tried  to  shake  off  the  perpetual  apprehension 
of  again  beholding  her. 

Frederick  Langdale  remained  for  some  time 
in  a  very  precarious  state.  All  visitors  were 
excluded  from  his  room,  and  a  wretched  space 
of  two  months  passed,  during  which  his  affec- 
tionate Maria  had  never  been  allowed  to  see 
him,  nor  to  write  to,  nor  to  hear  from  him; 
while  her  constitution  was  gradually  giving 
way  to  the  constant  operation  of  solicitude  and 
sorrow.  Mr.  Harding  meanwhile  recovered 
rapidly,  but  his  spirits  did  not  keep  pace  with 
his  mending  health:  the  dread  he  felt  of  quit- 
ting his  house,  the  tremor  excited  in  his  breast 
by  a  knocking  at  the  door,  or  the  approach 
of  a  footstep,  lest  the  intruder  should  be  the 
basilisk  Martha,  were  not  to  be  described; 
and  the  appearance  of  his  poor  Maria  did  not 
tend  to  dissipate  the  gloom  which  hung  over 
his  mind. 

When  Frederick  at  length  was  sufficiently 
recovered  to  receive  visitors,  Maria  was  not 
sufficiently  well  to  visit  him  :  she  was  too 
rapidly  sinking  into  an  early  grave,  and  even 
the  physician  himself  appeared  desirous  of  pre- 
paring her  parents  for  the  worst,  while  she, 
full  of  the  symptomatic  prospectiveness  of  the 
disease,  talked  anticipatingly  of  future  happi- 
ness when  Frederick  would  be  sufficiently  re- 
established to  visit  her.  At  length,  however, 
the  doctors  suggested  a  change  of  air — a  s  g- 


284 


MARTHA  THE  GIPSY. 


gestion  instantly  attended  to,  but,  alas !  too 
late;  the  weakness  of  the  poor  girl  was  such, 
that  upon  a  trial  of  her  strength  it  was  found 
inexpedient  to  attempt  her  removal.  In  this 
terrible  state,  separated  from  him  whose  all 
she  was,  did  the  exemplary  patient  linger,  and 
life  seemed  flickering  in  her  flushing  cheek, 
and  her  eye  was  sunken,  and  her  parched  lip 
quivered  with  pain.  It  was  at  length  agreed 
that,  on  the  following  day,  Frederick  Langdale 
might  be  permitted  to  visit  her: — his  varied 
fractures  were  reduced  and  the  wound  on  the 
head  had  assumed  a  favourable  appearance. 
The  carriage  was  ordered  to  convey  him  to  the 
Hardings  at  one,  and  the  physician  advised, 
by  all  means,  that  Maria  should  be  apprised  of 
and  prepared  for  the  meeting,  the  day  previous 
to  its  taking  place.  Those  who  are  parents, 
and  those  alone,  will  be  able  to  understand 
the  tender  solicitude,  the  wary  caution,  with 
which  both  her  lather  and  mother  proceeded  in 
a  disclosure  so  important,  as  the  medical  man 
thought,  to  her  recovery — careful  that  the 
coming  joy  should  be  imparted  gradually  to 
their  suffering  child,  and  that  all  the  mischiefs 
resulting  from  an  abrupt  announcement  should 
be  avoided. 

They  sat  down  by  her — spoke  of  Frederick 
— Maria  joined  in  the  conversation — raised 
herself  in  her  bed — by  degrees  hope  was  excited 
that  she  might  soon  again  see  him — this  hope 
was  gradually  improved  into  certainty — the 
period  at  which  it  might  occur  spoken  of — that 
period  again  progressively  diminished :  the 
anxious  girl  caught  the  whole  truth — she  knew 
it — she  was  conscious  that  she  should  behold 
him  on  the  morrow — she  burst  into  a  flood  of 
tears  and  sank  down  upon  her  pillow.  At  that 
moment  the  bright  sun,  which  was  shining  in 
all  its  splendour,  beamed  into  the  room,  and  fell 
strongly  upon  her  flushing  countenance.  ' '  Draw 
the  blind  down,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Harding 
to  her  husband.  Harding  rose  and  proceeded 
to  the  window.  A  shriek  of  horror  burst  from 
him — "She  is  there! "  exclaimed  he.  "  Who?" 
cried  his  astonished  wife.  "She — she — the 
horrid  she  !"  Mrs.  Hardins:  ran  to  the  window 
and  beheld  on  the  oppo-ite  side  of  the  street, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  attentively  on  the  house — 
MARTHA  THE  GIPSY. 

"Draw  down  the  blind,  my  love,  and  come 
away;  pray  come  away,"  said  Mrs.  Harding. 
Harding  drew  down  the  blind.  "What  evil  is 
at  hand!"  sobbed  the  agonized  man.  A  loud 
scream  from  Mrs.  Harding,  who  had  returned 
to  the  bedside,  was  the  horrid  answer  to  his 
painful  question.  Maria  was  dead  !  Twice  of 
the  thrice  had  he  seen  this  dreadful  fictid  in 


human  shape;  each  visitation  was  (as  she  had 
foretold)  to  surpass  the  preceding  one  in  its 
importance  of  horror.  What  could  surpass 
this?  Before  the  afflicted  parents  lay  their 
innocent  child,  stretched  in  the  still  sleep  of 
death — neither  of  them  believed  it  true — it 
seemed  like  a  horrid  dream.  Harding  was 
bewildered,  and  turned  from  the  corpse  of  his 
beloved  to  the  window  he  had  just  left.  Martha 
was  gone — and  he  heard  her  singing  a  wild 
and  joyous  air  at  the  other  end  of  the  street. 
The  servants  were  summoned — medical  aid 
was  called  in — but  it  was  all  too  late  !  and  the 
wretched  parents  were  doomed  to  mourn  their 
loved,  their  lost  Maria.  George,  her  fond  and 
affectionate  brother,  who  was  at  Oxford,  hast- 
ened from  all  the  academic  honours  which  were 
waiting  him,  to  follow  to  her  grave  his  beloved 
sister. 

The  effect  upon  Frederick  Langdale  was 
most  dreadful;  it  was  supposed  that  he  would 
never  recover  from  a  shock  so  great,  and,  at 
the  moment,  so  unexpected;  for  although  the 
delicacy  of  her  constitution  was  a  perpetual 
source  of  uneasiness  and  solicitude,  still  the 
immediate  symptoms  had  taken  rather  a  favour- 
able turn  during  the  last  few  days  of  her  life, 
and  had  reinvigorated  the  hope  which  those 
who  so  dearly  loved  her  entertained  of  her  even- 
tual recovery.  (Of  this  distressed  young  man  I 
never,  indeed,  heard  anything  till  about  three 
years  after,  when  I  saw  it  announced  in  the 
papers  that  he  was  married  to  the  only  daughter 
of  a  rich  west-country  baronet,  which,  if  I 
wanted  to  work  out  a  proverb  here,  would 
afford  me  a  most  admirable  opportunity  of 
doing  so. ) 

The  death  of  poor  Maria,  and  the  dread  which 
her  father  entertained  of  the  third  visitation 
of  Martha,  made  the  most  complete  change  in 
the  affairs  of  the  family.  By  the  exertion  of 
powerful  interest,  he  obtained  an  appointment 
for  his  son  to  act  as  his  deputy  in  the  office  which 
he  held:  and,  having  achieved  this  desired 
object,  resolved  on  leaving  England  for  a  time, 
and  quitting  a  neighbourhood  where  he  must 
be  perpetually  exposed  to  the  danger  which  h« 
was  now  perfectly  convinced  was  inseparable 
from  his  next  interview  with  the  weird-woman. 
George,  of  course,  thus  checked  in  his  classical 
pursuits,  left  Oxford,  and  at  the  early  age  of 
nineteen  commenced  active  official  life,  not 
certainly  in  the  particular  department  which 
his  mother  had  selected  for  his  debut;  and  it 
was  somewhat  observable  that  the  Langdales, 
after  the  death  of  Maria,  had  not  only  abstained 
from  frequent  intercourse  with  the  Hardings 
during  their  stay  in  England,  but  that  the 


MARTHA  THE  GIPSY. 


285 


mighty  professions  of  the  purse-proud  citizen 
dwindled  by  degrees  into  an  absolute  forgetful- 
ness  of  any  promise,  even  conditional,  to  exert 
an  interest  for  their  son.  Seeing  this,  Mr. 
Harding  felt  that  he  should  act  prudentially, 
by  endeavouring  to  place  his  son  where,  in  the 
course  of  time,  he  might  perhaps  attain  to  that 
situation  from  whose  honourable  revenue  he 
ceuld  live  like  a  gentleman,  and  "settle  com- 
fortably." 

All  the  arrangements  which  the  kind  father 
had  proposed  being  made,  the  mourning  couple 
proceeded  on  a  lengthened  tour  of  the  Conti- 
nent ;  and  it  was  evident  that  his  spirits 
mended  rapidly  when  he  felt  conscious  that 
his  liability  to  encounter  Martha  was  de- 
creased. The  sorrow  of  mourning  was  soothed 
and  softened  in  the  common  course  of  nature; 
and  the  quiet,  domesticated  couple  sat  them- 
selves down  at  Lausanne,  "the  world  forget- 
ting, by  the  world  forgot,"  except  by  their 
excellent  and  exemplary  son,  whose  good  quali- 
ties, it  seemed,  had  captivated  a  remarkably 
pretty  girl,  a  neighbour  of  his,  whose  mother 
appeared  to  be  equally  charmed  with  the  good- 
ness of  his  income.  There  appeared,  strange 
to  say,  in  this  affair,  no  difficulties  to  be  sur- 
mounted, no  obstacles  to  be  overcome;  and  the 
consent  of  the  Hardings,  requested  in  a  letter, 
which  also  begged  them  to  be  present  at  the 
ceremony  if  they  were  willing  it  should  take 
place,  was  presently  obtained  by  George;  and, 
at  the  close  of  the  second  year  which  had 
passed  since  their  departure,  the  parents  and 
son  were  again  united  in  that  house,  the  very 
sight  of  which  recalled  to  their  recollection 
their  poor  unhappy  daughter  and  her  melan- 
choly fate,  and  which  was  still  associated  most 
painfully  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Harding  with 
the  hated  gipsy.  The  charm,  however,  had  no 
doubt  been  broken.  In  the  two  past  years 
Martha  was  doubtless  either  dead  or  gone  from 
the  neighbourhood.  They  were  a  wandering 
tribe:  and  thus  Mrs.  Harding  checked  the 
rising  apprehensions  and  renewed  uneasiness 
of  her  husband;  and  so  well  did  she  succeed, 
that,  when  the  wedding-day  came,  and  the 
bells  rang,  and  the  favours  fluttered  in  the 
air,  his  countenance  was  lighted  with  smiles, 
and  he  kissed  the  glowing  cheek  of  his  new 
daughter-in-law  with  warmth  and  something 
like  happiness. 

The  wedding  took  place  at  that  season  of 
the  year  when  friends  and  families  meet  jovi- 
ally and  harmoniously,  when  all  little  bicker- 
ings are  forgotten,  and  when,  by  a  general 
feeling,  founded  upon  religion,  and  perpetu- 
ated by  the  memory  of  the  blessing  granted  to 


the  world  by  the  Almighty,  a  universal  am- 
nesty is  proclaimed;  when  the  cheerful  fire 
and  the  teeming  board  announce  that  Christ- 
mas is  come,  and  mirth  and  gratulation  are 
the  order  of  the  day.  It  unfortunately  hap- 
pened, however,  that  to  the  account  of  Miss 
Wilkinson's  marriage  with  George  Harding  I 
am  not  permitted,  in  truth,  to  add  that  they 
left  town  in  a  travelling  carriage  and  four  to 
spend  the  honeymoon.  Three  or  four  days 
permitted  absence  from  his  office  alone  were 
devoted  to  the  celebration  of  the  nuptials;  and 
it  was  agreed  that  the  whole  party,  together 
with  the  younger  branches  of  the  Wilkinsons, 
their  cousins  and  second  cousins,  &c.,  should 
meet  on  Twelfth-night  to  celebrate,  in  a  juve- 
nile party,  the  return  of  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom to  their  home.  When  that  night  came 
it  was  delightful  to  see  the  happy  faces  of  the 
smiling  youngsters:  it  was  a  pleasure  to  be- 
hold them  pleased — a  participation  in  which, 
since  the  highest  amongst  us,  and  the  most 
accomplished  prince  in  Europe,  annually  evinces 
the  gratification  he  feels  in  such  sights,  I  am 
by  no  means  disposed  to  disclaim;  and  merry 
was  the  jest,  and  gaily  did  the  evening  pass; 
and  Mr.  Harding,  surrounded  by  his  youthful 
guests,  smiled,  and  for  a  season  forgot  his 
care;  yet,  as  he  glanced  round  the  room,  he 
could  not  suppress  a  sigh  when  he  recollected 
that,  in  that  very  room,  his  darling  Maria  had 
entertained  her  little  parties  on  the  anniver- 
sary of  the  same  day  in  former  years.  Supper 
was  announced  early,  and  the  gay  throng 
bounded  down  stairs  to  the  parlour,  where  an 
abundance  of  the  luxuries  .of  middling  life 
crowded  the  board.  In  the  centre  appeared 
the  great  object  of  the  feast — a  huge  twelfth- 
cake;  and  gilded  kings  and  queens  stood 
lingering  over  circles  of  scarlet  sweetmeats, 
and  hearts  of  sugar  lay  enshrined  with  warlike 
trophies  of  the  same  material.  Many  and 
deep  were  the  wounds  the  mighty  cake  re- 
ceived, and  every  guest  watched  with  a  deep 
anxiety  the  coming  portion  relatively  to  the 
glittering  splendour  with  which  its  frosted 
surface  was  adorned.  Character- cards,  illus- 
trated with  pithy  mottoes  and  quaint  sayings, 
were  distributed;  and,  by  one  of  those  little 
frauds  which  such  societies  tolerate,  Mr.  Hard- 
ing was  announced  as  king,  and  the  new  bride 
as  queen;  and  there  was  such  charming  jok- 
ing, and  such  harmless  merriment  abounding, 
that  he  looked  to  his  wife  with  an  expression 
of  content,  which  she  had  often,  but  vainly, 
sought  to  find  upon  his  countenance  since  the 
death  of  his  dear  Maria. 

Supper  concluded,  the  clock  struck  twelve, 


236 


MARTHA  THE  GIPSY. 


and  the  elders  looked  as  if  it  were  time  for  the 
young  ones  to  depart.  One  half-hour's  grace 
was  begged  for  by  the  "king,"  and  granted; 
and  Airs.  George  Harding,  on  this  night,  was 
to  sing  them  a  song  about  "poor  old  maidens'' 
- — an  ancient  quaintness,  which,  by  custom 
and  usage,  ever  since  she  was  a  little  child, 
she  had  annually  performed  upon  this  anni- 
versary: and,  accordingly,  the  promise  being 
claimed,  silence  was  obtained,  and  she,  with 
all  that  .show  of  tucker-heaving  diffidence  which 
is  so  becoming  in  a  very  pretty  downy-cheeked 
girl,  prepared  to  commence,  when  a  noise,  re- 
sembling that  producible  by  the  falling  of  an 
eight-and-forty  pound  shot,  echoed  through 
the  house.  It  appeared  to  descend  from  the 
very  top  of  the  building,  down  each  flight  of 
stairs,  rapidly  and  violently.  It  passed  the 
door  of  the  room  in  which  they  were  sitting, 
and  rolled  its  impetuous  course  downwards  to 
the  basement.  As  it  seemed  to  leave  the 
parlour  the  door  was  forced  open,  as  if  by  a 
gust  of  wind,  and  stood  ajar.  All  the  chil- 
dren were  in  a  moment  on  their  feet  huddled 
close  to  their  respective  mothers  in  groups. 
Mrs.  Harding  rose  and  rang  the  bell  to  in- 
quire the  meaning  of  the  uproar.  Her  daugh- 
ter-in-law, pale  as  ashes,  looked  at  George; 
but  there  was  one  of  the  party  who  moved  not, 
who  stirred  not:  it  was  the  elder  Harding, 
whose  eyes  first  fixed  steadfastly  on  the  half- 
opened  door,  followed  the  course  of  the  wall  of 
the  apartment  to  the  fireplace — there  they 
rested.  When  the  servants  came  they  said 
they  had  heard  the  noise,  but  thought  it  pro- 
ceeded from  above.  Harding  looked  at  his 
wife;  and  then,  turning  to  the  servant,  ob- 
served carelessly  that  it  must  have  been  some 
noise  in  the  street;  and,  desiring  him  to  with- 
draw, entreated  the  bride  to  pursue  her  song. 
She  did;  but  the  children  had  been  too  much 
alarmed  to  enjoy  it,  and  the  noise  had  in  its 
character  something  so  strange  and  so  un- 
earthly, that  even  the  elders  of  the  party, 
although  bound  not  to  admit  anything  like 
apprehension  before  their  offspring,  felt  glad 
when  they  found  themselves  at  home. 

When  the  guests  were  gone,  and  George's 
wife  lighted  her  candle  to  retire  to  rest,  her 
father-in-law  kissed  her  affectionately,  and 
prayed  God  to  bless  her.  He  then  took  a  kind 
leave  of  his  son,  and  putting  up  a  fervent 
prayer  for  his  happiness,  pressed  him  to  his 
heart,  and  bade  him  adieu  with  an  earnestness, 
which,  under  the  commonplace  circumstance 
of  a  temporary  separation,  was  inexplicable  to 
the  young  man.  When  he  reached  his  bed- 
room he  spoke  to  his  wife,  and  entreated  her 


to  prepare  her  mind  for  some  great  calamity. 
"What  it  is  to  be,"  said  Harding,  "where  the 
blow  is  to  fall,  I  know  not;  but  it  is  impend- 
ing over  us  this  night!"  "My  life!"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Harding,  "what  fancy  is  this?" 
"Eliza,  love!"  answered  her  husband,  in  a 
tone  of  unspeakable  agony,  "  I  have  seen  her 
for  the  third  and  last  time!"  "Who?" 
"MARTHA  THE  GIPSY."  "  Impossible:"  said 
Mrs.  Harding,  "you  have  not  left  the  house 
to-day  !"  "  True,  my  beloved,"  replied  the 
husband;  "but  I  have  seen  her.  When  that 
tremendous  noise  was  heard  at  supper,  as  the 
door  was  supernaturally  opened,  I  saw  her. 
She  fixed  those  dreadful  eyes  of  hers  upon  me; 
she  proceeded  to  the  fireplace,  and  stood  in 
the  midst  of  the  children,  and  there  she  re- 
mained till  the  servant  came  in."  "My 
dearest  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Harding,  "this  is 
but  a  disorder  of  the  imagination."  "Be 
what  it  may,"  said  he,  "I  have  seen  her, 
human  or  superhuman — natural  or  superna- 
tural— there  she  was.  I  shall  not  strive  to 
argue  upon  a  point  where  I  am  likely  to  meet 
with  little  credit;  all  I  ask  is,  pray  fervently, 
have  faith,  and  we  will  hope  the  evil,  whatever 
it  is,  may  be  averted." 

He  kissed  his  wife's  cheek  tenderly,  and, 
after  a  fitful  feverish  hour  or  two,  fell  into  a 
slumber.  From  that  slumber  never  woke  he 
more.  He  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  in  the 
morning.  "  Whether  the  force  of  imagination, 
coupled  with  the  unexpected  noise,  produced 
such  an  alarm  as  to  rob  him  of  life,  I  know 
not,"  said  my  communicant,  "but  he  was 
dead. " 

This  story  was  told  me  by  my  friend  Ellis 
in  walking  from  the  city  to  Harley  Street  late 
in  the  evening;  and  when  we  came  to  this  part 
of  the  history  we  were  in  Bedford  Square,  at 
the  dark  and  dreary  corner  of  it,  where  Caro- 
line Street  joins  it.  "And  there,"  said  Ellis, 
pointing  downwards,  "is  the  street  where  it 
all  occurred."  "Come,  come,"  said  I,  "you 
tell  the  story  well,  but  I  suppose  you  do  not 
expect  it  to  be  received  as  gospel."  "  Faith," 
said  he,  "I  know  so  much  of  it,  that  I  was 
one  of  the  party,  and  heard  the  noise."  "  But 
you  did  not  see  the  spectre?"  cried  I.  "  No," 
said  Ellis,  "I  certainly  did  not."  "No," 
answered  I,  "nor  anybody  else,  I'll  be  sworn." 
A  quick  footstep  was  just  then  heard  behind 
us;  I  turned  half  round  to  let  the  person  pass, 
and  saw  a  woman  enveloped  in  a  red  cloak, 
whose  sparkling  black  eyes,  shone  upon  by  the 
dim  lustre  of  a  lamp  above  her  head,  dazzled 
me.  I  was  startled.  "  Pray,  remember  old 
MARTHA  THE  GIPSY,"  said  the  hag. 


SEARCHING  AFTER  GOD. 


287 


It  was  like  a  thunder-stroke — I  instantly 
slipped  my  hand  into  my  pocket,  and  hastily 
gave  her  therefrom  a  five -shilling  piece. 
"Thanks,  my  bonny  one,"  said  the  woman; 
and  setting  up  a  shont  of  contemptuous 
laughter,  she  bounded  down  Caroline  Street, 
into  Russel  Street,  singing,  or  rather  yelling, 
a  joyous  song.  Ellis  did  not  speak  during 
this  scene;  he  pressed  my  arm  tightly,  and  we 
quickened  our  pace.  We  said  nothing  to  ea«h 
other  till  we  turned  into  Bedford  Street,  and 
the  lights  and  passengers  of  Tottenham  Court 
Road  reassured  us.  "What  do  you  think  of 
that?"  said  Ellis  to  me.  "  SEEING  is  BE- 
LIEVING," was  my  reply.  I  have  never  passed 
that  dark  corner  of  Bedford  Square  in  the 
evening  since. 


SEARCHING  AFTER  GOD. 


Thomas  Heywood,  died  1649.  Although,  as  he 
himself  tells  us,  he  had  "either  an  entire  hand,  or  at 
the  least  a  main  finger  in  two  hundred  and  twenty 
plays,"  scarcely  anything  is  known  of  his  life.  His 
most  notable  production  was,  A  Woman  Killfd  with 
Kindness,  which  has  been  highly  commended  by  Schlegel 
and  other  critics.] 

I  sought  thee  round  about,  O  thou  my  God, 

In  thine  abode. 
I  said  unto  the  Earth  "  Speake,  art  thou  He?" 

She  answer* d  me, 
"  I  am  not." — I  enquired  of  creatures  all, 

In  general!, 

Contain'd  therein; — they  with  one  voice  proclaime, 
That  none  amongst  them  challenged  such  a  name. 


I  nskt  the  seas,  and  all  the  deeps  below, 

My  God  to  know. 
I  askt  the  reptiles,  and  whatever  is 

In  tlm  iihysse ; 
Even  from  the  shrimpe  to  the  leviathan 

Enquiry  ran  ; 

But  in  those  deserts  which  no  line  can  sound 
The  God  I  sought  for  was  not  to  be  found. 

I  aekt  the  aire  if  that  were  He?  hut  lo! 

Ft  told  me  No. 
I  from  the  towering  eagle  to  the  wren, 

Demnncled  then. 
If  any  feather' d  fowle  'mongct  them  were  such? 

But  they  all  much 

Offended  with  my  question   in  full  quire. 
Anawer'd— "  To  flnde  thy  God  thou  must  look  higher." 


I  askt  the  heavens,  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  but  they 

Said  "We  obey 
The  God  thou  seek'st."  I  askt,  what  eye  or  eare 

Could  see  or  heare ; 
What  in  the  world  I  might  descry  Or  know 

Above,  below : 

— With  an  unanimous  voice,  all  these  things  said, 
"We  are  not  God,  but  we  by  him  were  made." 

I  askt  the  world's  great  universal  masse, 

If  that  God  was? 
Which  with  a  mighty  and  strong  voice  reply'd, 

As  stu|)ify'd, 
"I  am  not  He,  O  man  !  for  know,  that  I 

By  him  on  high 

Was  fashion'd  first  of  nothing,  thus  instated, 
And  sw.iy'd  by  him,  by  whom  I  was  created." 

A  scrutiny  within  myself  I,  than, 

Even  thus  began : — 
"  O  man,  what  art  thou?" — What  more  could  I  say, 

Than  dust  and  clay  ? 
Fraile,  mortal,  fading,  a  meere  puffe,  a  blast, 

That  cannot  last ; 

Enthroned  to-day,  to-morrow  in  an  urne; 
Form'd  from  that  earth  to  which  I  must  retume. 

I  askt  myself,  what  this  gre  it  God  might  be 

That  fashion'd  me? 
I  answer'd — The  all-potent,  solely  immense, 

Surpassing  sense ; 
Unspeakable,  inscrutable,  eternal), 

Lord  over  all ; 

The  only  terrible,  strong,  just,  and  true. 
Who  hath  no  end,  and  no  beginning  knew. 

He  is  the  well  of  life,  for  he  doth  give 

To  all  that  live, 
Both  breath  and  being :  he  is  the  Creator, 

Both  of  the  water, 
Earth,  aire,  and  fire.     Of  all  things  that  subsist 

He  hath  the  1W ; 

Of  all  the  heavenly  host,  or  what  earth  claimes, 
He  keeps  the  scrole,  and  calls  them  by  their  ninies. 

And  now,  my  God,  by  thine  illumining  grace 

Thy  glorious  face, 
(So  far  forth  as  it  may  discover'd  be), 

Methinks  I  see; 
And  though  invisible  and  infinite, 

To  human  sight 

Thou,  in  thy  mercy,  justice,  truth,  appearest; 
In  which  to  our  weake  senses  thou  com'st  nearest. 

O  make  us  art  to  seeke,  and  quid  e  to  findo, 

Thou  God.  most  kinde  ! 
Give  us  love,  hope,  and  faith  in  thee  to  trust, 

Thou  God  most  just ! 
Remit  all  our  offences,  we  entreat; 

Most  Good,  most  Great  I 

Grant  that  our  willing,  though  unworthy  quest 
May,  through  thy  grace,  admit  us  'mongst  the  blart. 


28S 


MASANIELLO. 


MASANIELLO,  THE  FISHERMAN  OF 
NAPLES.1 

Tomaso  Anello,  or,  as  he  is  more  generally 
called,  Masaniello,  was  the  son  of  a  fisherman 
of  Amalfi,  where  he  was  born  about  the  year 
3  623.  He  followed  the  occupation  of  nis  father, 
was  clad  in  the  meanest  attire,  went  about  bare- 
foot, and  gained  a  scanty  livelihood  by  angling 
for  fish,  and  hawking  them  about  for  sale. 
AVho  could  have  imagined  that  in  this  poor 
abject  fisher-boy  the  populace  were  to  find  the 
being  destined  to  lead  them  on  to  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  revolutions  recorded  in 
history?  Yet  so  it  was.  No  monarch  ever 
had  the  glory  of  rising  so  suddenly  to  so  lofty 
a  pitch  of  power  as  the  barefooted  Masaniello. 
Naples,  the  metropolis  of  many  fertile  pro- 
vinces, the  queen  of  many  noble  cities,  the 
resort  of  princes,  of  cavaliers,  and  of  heroes. 
Naples,  inhabited  by  more  than  600,000  souls, 
abounding  in  all  kinds  of  resources,  glorying 
in  its  strength.  This  proud  city  saw  itself 
forced,  in  one  short  day,  to  yield  to  one  of  its 
meanest  sons  such  obedience  as  in  all  its  his- 
tory it  had  never  before  shown  to  the  mightiest 
of  its  liege  sovereigns.  In  a  few  hours  the 
fisher  lad  was  at  the  head  of  150,000  men;  in  a 
few  hours  there  was  no  will  in  Naples  but  his; 
and  in  a  few  hours  it  was  freed  from  all  sorts 
of  taxes,  and  restored  to  all  its  ancient  privi- 
leges. The  fishing  wand  was  exchanged  for 
the  truncheon  of  command,  the  sea -boy's 
jacket  for  cloth  of  silver  and  gold.  He  made 
the  town  be  entrenched;  he  placed  sentinels 
to  guard  it  against  danger  from  without;  and 
he  established  a  system  of  police  within,  which 
awed  the  worst  banditti  in  the  world  into  fear. 
Armies  passed  in  review  before  him;  even 
fleets  owned  his  sway. 

During  the  viceroyship  of  the  Duke  of 
Arcos  the  Neapolitans  were  much  oppressed 
by  heavy  taxes  on  the  necessities  of  life.  At 
length,  in  1647,  the  viceroy  mortgaged  to 
«ertain  merchants  the  duty  on  fruit,  at  once 


1  From  tlie  Mirror  of  Literature,  Amusement,  and  fn- 
rtruftim.  This  once  popular  periodical  was  one  of  the 
early  pioneers  of  cheap  literature,  and  it  ran  a  very 
successful  career  from  November.  1822.  till  1S49.  It 
was  first  edited  by  Mr.  Thomas  Byerly,  the  Reuben  of 
the  Ptrcii  Anectli'ttf  (the  Percit  Anecdote*,  by  Sholto  and 
Rentaii  Percy.  20  vols.)  At  his  death  it  was  placed  in 
the  hands  of  a  Mr.  Ray  for  six  months ;  then  it  was  en- 
trusted to  Mr  John  Timbs,  who  carried  it  on  until 
1840.  U|Min  his  retirement  the  editorship  passed  suc- 
cessively into  the  hands  of  Mr.  D.  M.  Aird,  Mr. 
Gaspey,  and  Mr.  J.  B.  St.  John. 


the  luxury  and  staple  of  life  to  the  temperate 
Neapolitans. 

Masaniello  saw  with  grief  his  countrymen 
obliged  to  sell  the'r  beds,  and  even  abandon 
their  offspring,  in  order  to  pay  the  odious  im- 
post. At  length  his  sense  of  the  public  misery 
was  worked  up  to  the  utmost  by  an  outrage  on 
his  own  family.  His  wife  was  carrying  a  small 
quantity  of  contraband  flour  home  for  her 
cWldren  when  she  was  seized  and  dragged  to 
prison;  nor  was  it  until  he  was  obliged  to  sell 
his  furniture,  and  pay  100  ducats,  that  he 
could  obtain  her  release.  He  now  resolved  to 
rescue  his  country  from  slavery;  he  harangued 
the  fruit-dealers  in  the  market-place,  urging 
them  not  to  buy  a  single  basket  of  the  growers 
until  the  duty  was  taken  oif.  He  then  assem- 
bled a  number  of  boys,  who  went  wailing 
through  the  streets,  and  calling  out  for  redress. 
When  remonstrated  with  by  some  of  his  neigh- 
bours, and  jested  with  by  others,  he  replied, 
"You  may  laugh  at  me  now;  but  you  shall 
soon  see  what  the  fool  Masaniello  can  do:  let 
me  alone,  and  give  me  my  way,  and  if  I  do 
not  set  you  free  from  all  your  taxes,  and  from 
the  slavery  that  now  grinds  you  to  death,  may 
I  be  cursed  and  called  a  villain  for  ever ! " 

In  the  meantime  Masaniello's  army  of  boys 
amounted  to  5000,  all  active  and  docile  youths, 
from  the  age  of  sixteen  to  that  of  nineteen. 
He  armed  each  with  a  slender  cane,  and  bade 
them  meet  him  in  the  market-place  next  morn- 
ing, Sunday,  July  7,  1647 — a  day  when  a  sort 
of  mock  fight  and  storming  of  a  wooden  tower 
used  to  take  place  between  the  Neapolitan 
youths  in  the  respective  characters  of  Turks 
and  Christians.  It  was  during  the  confusion 
occasioned  by  this  custom  that  Masaniello  ran 
in  among  the  children  and  the  mob  and  cried 
out,  "  No  taxes!  no  taxes  !" 

In  vain  did  the  magistrates  attempt  to 
quell  the  mob.  Masaniello  armed  his  troops 
with  the  plunder  of  the  tower,  and  haranguea 
them. 

"Rejoice,"  said  he,  "my  dear  companions 
and  countrymen,  give  God  thanks,  and  the 
most  gracious  Virgin  of  Carmine,  that  the 
hour  of  our  redemption,  and  the  time  of  our 
deliverance,  draweth  nigh.  This  poor  fisher- 
man, barefooted  as  he  is,  shall,  like  another 
Moses,  who  delivered  the  Israelites  from  the 
cruel  rod  of  Pharaoh,  the  Egyptian  king,  free 
you  from  all  gabels  and  impositions  that  were 
ever  laid  on  you.  It  was  a  fisherman — I  mean 
St.  Peter — who  redeemed  the  city  of  Rome 
from  the  slavery  of  the  devil  to  the  liberty  of 
Christ;  and  the  whole  world  followed  that 
deliverance,  and  obtained  their  freedom  from 


MASANIELLO. 


239 


the  same  bondage.  Now  another  fisherman, 
one  Masaniello — I  am  the  man — shall  release 
the  city  of  Naples,  and  with  it  a  whole  king- 
dom, from  the  cruel  yoke  of  tolls  and  gabels. 
Shake  off,  therefore,  from  this  moment  the 
yoke.  Be  free,  if  you  have  but  courage,  from 
those  intolerable  oppressions  under  which  you 
have  hitherto  groaned.  To  bring  this  glorious 
end  about,  I  do  not  care  for  myself,  if  I  am 
torn  to  pieces,  and  dragged  about  the  city  of 
Naples,  through  all  the  kennels  and  gutters 
that  belong  to  it ;  let  all  the  blood  in  this  body 
flow  cheerfully  out  of  these  veins;  let  this  head 
fly  from  these  shoulders  at  the  touch  of  the 
fatal  steel,  and  be  perched  up  over  this  market- 
place, on  a  pole  to  be  gazed  at,  yet  shall  I  die 
contented  and  glorious;  it  will  be  triumph  and 
honour  sufficient  for  me  to  think  that  my 
blood  and  life  were  sacrificed  in  so  worthy  a 
cause,  and  that  I  became  the  saviour  of  my 
country. " 

Masaniello  ceased  to  speak,  and  the  shouts 
of  the  multitude  attested  the  spirit  that  his 
words  had  excited.  The  firing  of  the  toll-house, 
with  all  the  account-books  that  were  kept  there, 
and  many  commodities  that  belonged  to  the 
farmers  of  the  customs,  was  a  signal  for  a 
general  conflagration  of  all  that  was  rare, 
precious,  and  curious  throughout  Naples.  The 
houses  of  the  nobility  were  ransacked;  their 
fine  furniture  and  valuable  pictures,  their 
libraries,  wardrobes,  jewels,  and  plate,  were  all 
brought  forth  into  the  streets,  and  thrown  into 
immense  fires,  which  were  fed  every  moment 
by  additions  of  the  most  costly  fuel  that  luxury 
could  supply.  The  house  of  a  man  who  had 
originally  carried  bread  up  and  down  the  streets 
of  Naples,  but  becoming  a  favourite  of  the 
viceroy's  had  been  enabled  to  acquire  immense 
wealth  by  dealing  in  the  funds,  was  sought 
out  by  the  mob  with  peculiar  eagerness.  They 
assembled  round  his  gates  with  lighted  torches 
in  their  hands,  forced  an  entrance,  and,  strip- 
ping the  rooms  as  they  went  along,  threw  the 
furniture,  books,  papers,  and  everything  that 
they  could  lay  their  hands  on,  out  of  the  win- 
dows. Twenty-three  large  trunks  were  thus 
hurled  into  the  streets,  and  being  forced  open 
by  the  violence  of  the  fall,  displayed  the  richest 
tissues  and  embroideries  in  gold  and  silver  to 
the  eyes  of  the  beholders,  who  notwithstanding 
immediately  consigned  them  to  the  flames, 
along  with  a  cabinet  full  of  oriental  pearls; 
exclaiming,  as  they  had  done  before,  that  they 
were  wrung  from  the  heart's  blood  of  the  people, 
and  should  perish  in  flames,  as  tho  extortioners 
themselves  ought  to  do. 

The  viceroy  became  alarmed,  and  solicited 

VOL.  L 


an  interview;  Masaniello,  in  the  meantime, 
organized  his  forces,  which  assumed  all  the 
appearance  of  a  well-disciplined  army,  amount- 
ing to  114,000  men.  While  a  negotiation  was 
going  on  with  the  viceroy,  an  attempt  was 
made  to  assassinate  Masaniello  by  some  of  the 
j  viceroy's  troops,  who  discharged  a  shower  of 
musket-bullets  at  him,  one  of  which  singed  th« 
breast  of  his  shirt. 

Becoming  distrustful  by  this  act  of  treachery, 
Masaniello  issued  several  sumptuary  laws, 
making  every  person  leave  off  wearing  cloaks 
or  long  garments,  under  which  daggers  could 
be  concealed.  He  demanded  a  treaty  from  th# 
viceroy,  to  secure  their  liberties,  which  was 
granted. 

The  treaty  was  accordingly  solemnly  read  in 
the  cathedral  church,  amidst  countless  mul- 
titudes of  people,  and  Masaniello  afterwards 
went  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  viceroy  at  his 
excellency's  particular  request.  He  would  have 
gone  in  his  mariner's  dress,  as  usual,  but  at 
the  persuasion  of  the  archbishop  he  consented 
to  lay  it  aside,  and  appeared  on  horseback, 
attired  in  a  white  habit,  splendidly  embroidered, 
a  magnificent  plume  of  feathers  waved  from 
his  hat,  and  in  his  hand  he  carried  a  drawn 
sword;  thus  accoutred  he  rode  in  front  of  the 
archbishop's  carriage.  His  brother,  also  richly 
habited,  rode  on  his  right  hand;  one.  of  his 
colleagues,  Arpaja,  tribune  of  the  commons, 
on  the  left;  and  the  other,  Julio  Genevino,  last; 
followed  by  a  hundred  and  sixty  companies  of 
horse  and  foot,  consisting  in  all  of  about  fifty 
thousand  men.  All  eyes  were  fixed  on  Masan- 
iello as  he  passed,  all  hearts  sprang  towards 
him,  all  voices  joined  in  pronouncing  him 
"the  saviour  of  his  country."  The  way  before 
him  was  strewed  by  grateful  hands  with  palm 
and  olive  branches,  the  balconies  were  hung 
with  the  richest  silks  to  do  him  honour  as  he 
passed,  and  the  ladies  threw  from  them  the 
choicest  flowers  and  garlands,  accompanying 
their  homage  with  the  most  respectful  and 
admiring  obeisances.  The  air  was  filled  with 
the  sweetest  music,  and  Naples,  which  for 
three  days  before  was  a  scene  of  the  most 
appalling  anarchy  and  tumult,  now  presented 
nothing  but  images  of  peace  and  joy. 

A  day  was  fixed  for  ratifying  the  treaty  in 
public;  but  that  day  saw  a  wonderful  change 
in  Masaniello ;  his  incessant  fatigue  and  anxiety, 
his  want  of  rest,  and  neglect  of  food,  were  too 
much  for  a  frame  merely  mortal,  and  his 
vigorous  mind  became  affected.  The  viceroy 
took  ad  vantage  of  this  circumstance,  proclaimed 
his  authority  at  an  end,  and  promised  a  reward 
of  ten  thousand  ducats  to  any  one  who  should 
19 


290 


ON  REVISITING  THE  SCENES  OF  MY   INFANCY. 


cause  him  to  be  destroyed.  Naples  was  never 
deficient  in  assassins  even  without  so  large  a 
bribe. 

His  disordered  reason  displayed  itself  in 
several  acts  of  wanton  cruelty,  with  which, 
till  then,  his  power,  absolute  as  it  was,  had 
never  been  sullied:  he  wandered  about  the 
streets  in  rags,  without  anything  on  his  head, 
and  with  only  one  stocking  on:  in  this  humili- 
ating state  he  went  to  the  viceroy,  and  com- 
plained of  hunger;  a  collation  was  ordered  for 
him,  but  he  declined  waiting  for  it,  and  order- 
ing his  gondola,  went  on  the  water,  probably 
to  seek  relief  from  his  feverish  sensations. 
Unfortunately  thirst  preyed  upon  him,  and  in 
the  course  of  a  few  hours  he  drank  twelve 
bottles  of  Lachrymse  Christ! ;  an  excess  which, 
to  one  of  his  temperate  habits  and  long  priva- 
tion, was  enough  in  itself  to  bring  on  insanity; 
and  which  increased  his  disorder  to  so  alarming 
a  degree,  that  the  next  day  he  rode  furiously 
up  and  down  the  streets,  wounding  every  one 
he  met  with  his  drawn  sword,  summoning  the 
nobles  to  kiss  his  naked  feet,  striking  and  in- 
sulting his  colleagues,  and  committing  every  i 
outrage  and  inconsistency. 

Hasan iello  attended  church  on  the  festi- 
val of  "our  Lady  of  Carmine,"  July  16;  here 
he  told  the  archbishop  that  he  was  ready  to 
resign  his  office  and  authority  to  the  viceroy; 
the  archbishop  promised  him  everj'thing  he 
desired,  and  with  fatherly  kindness  commanded 
one  of  the  monks  to  take  him  to  the  dormitory, 
and  prevail  upon  him  to  refresh  himself  with 
a  little  sleep.  Unfortunately  his  eminence 
left  the  church  as  soon  as  he  saw  his  order 
executed ;  and  scarcely  was  he  gone  when  the 
assassins  rushed  in,  calling  out,  "Long  live 
the  King  of  Spain,  and  death  to  those  who 
obey  Hasaniello!"  Few  as  the  conspirators 
were,  the  cowardly  people  made  no  attempt  to 
oppose  them;  but,  on  the  contrarj-,  fell  back 
for  them  to  pass,  and  they  went  accordingly 
straight  to  the  convent,  searching  everywhere 
for  Masaniello.  He,  unhappy  man,  hearing 
himself  loudly  called,  and  thinking  his  presence 
was  required  on  some  public  matter,  started 
from  the  pallet  on  which  he  had  thrown  him- 
self, and  ran  out  to  meet  his  murderers,  crying, 
"Is  it  me  you  are  looking  for,  my  people?  be- 
hold I  am  here; "  but  all  the  answer  he  received 
was  the  contents  of  four  muskets  at  once,  from 
the  hands  of  his  four  detestable  assassins :  he 
instantly  fell,  and  expired,  with  the  reproach- 
ful exclamation  "Ah,  ungrateful  traitors!" 
bursting  from  his  dying  lips.  His  murderers 
then  cut  off  his  head,  and,  fixing  it  on  the  top 
of  a  pike,  carried  it  to  the  viceroy,  after  which 


it  was  thrown  into  one  ditch,  and  his  body 
into  another,  with  numerous  indignities  be- 
stowed upon  it,  whilst  ten  thousand  of  his  tote 
followers  stood  stupidly  by,  without  making  a 
single  effort  to  redeem  it  from  disgrace. 

Thus  fell  Masaniello,  after  a  reign  of  nine 
days,  from  the  7th  to  the  16th  of  July.  It 
was  a  reign  marked  with  some  excesses,  and 
with  some  traits  of  personal  folly;  yet  as  long 
as  it  is  not  an  everyday  event  for  a  fisher-boy 
to  become  &  king,  the  story  of  Hasaniello  of 
Naples  must  be  regarded  with  equal  wonder 
and  admiration,  as  exhibiting  an  astonishing 
instance  of  the  genius  to  command  existing  in 
one  of  the  humblest  situations  of  life,  and  as- 
serting its  ascendency  with  a  rapidity  of  enter- 
prise to  which  there  is  no  parallel  in  history. 


ON  REVISITING  THE  SCENES  OF 
MY   INFANCY. 

[John  Leyden,  M.D.,  born  in  Denholm,  Roxburgh, 
8th  September,  1 775 ;  died  in  the  island  of  Java,  28th 
August,  1811.  He  was  distinguished  as  an  oriental 
scholar  and  a  poet.  He  was  a  friend  of  Scott,  and 
assisted  in  collecting  materials  for  the  Boi-der  Minttrelsy. 
His  intense  abstraction  whenever  he  had  a  book  in  his 
hand  is  said  to  have  suggested  the  character  of  "  Dom- 
inie Samson."  He  was  the  author  and  editor  of  num- 
erous important  works.  His  death  occurred  shortly 
after  his  appointment  to  the  judgeship  of  the  Twenty- 
four  Pergunnahs  of  Calcutta.  His  poetical  works  were 
published  in  1819,  with  a  memoir.] 

My  native  stream,  my  native  vale, 
And  you,  green  mends  of  Teviotdale, 

That  after  absence  long  I  view ! 
Your  bleakest  scenes  that  rise  around, 
Assume  the  tints  of  fairy  ground, 

And  infancy  revive  anew. 

When  first  each  joy  that  childhood  yields 
I  left,  and  saw  my  native  fields 

At  distance  fading  dark  and  blue, 
As  if  my  feet  had  gone  astray 
In  some  lone  desert's  pathless  way, 

I  turn'd,  my  distant  home  to  view. 

Now  tired  of  Folly's  fluttering  breed, 
And  scenes  where  oft  the  heart  must  bleed. 

Where  every  joy  is  mix'd  with  pain; 
Back  to  this  lonely  green  retreat, 
Which  infancy  has  rendered  sweet, 

I  guide  my  wandering  steps  again. 

And  now,  when  rosy  sunbeams  lie 
In  thin  streaks  o'er  the  eastern  sky, 


MRS.  MELLOR'S  DIAMONDS. 


291 


Beside  my  native  stream  I  rove : 
When  the  gray  sea  of  fading  light 
Ebbs  gradual  down  the  western  height, 

I  softly  trace  my  native  grove. 

When  forth  at  morn  the  heifers  go, 
And  fill  the  fields  with  plaintive  low, 

Re-echoed  by  their  young  confined; 
When  sunbeams  wake  the  slumbering  breeze 
And  light  the  dew-drops  on  the  trees, 

Beside  the  stream  I  lie  reclined, 

And  view  the  water-spiders  glide 
Along  the  smooth  and  level  tide, 

Which,  prin tless,  yields  not  as  they  pass; 
While  still  their  slender  frisky  feet 
Scarce  seen  with  tiny  step  to  meet 

The  surface  blue  and  clear  as  glass. 

I  love  the  rivulet's  stilly  chime 

That  marks  the  ceaseless  lapse  of  time, 

And  seems  in  Fancy's  ear  to  say — 
"  A  few  short  suns,  and  thou  no  more 
Shalt  linger  on  thy  parent  shore, 

But  like  the  foam-streak  pass  away!" 

Dear  fields,  in  vivid  green  array'd ! 
When  every  tint  at  last  shall  fade 

In  death's  funereal,  cheerless  hue, 
As  sinks  the  latest  fainting  beam 
Of  light  that  on  mine  eyes  shall  gleam, 

Still  shall  I  turn  your  scenes  to  view. 


MRS.   MELLOR'S  DIAMONDS. 

[George  Augustus  Sala,  born  in  London  1827.  His 
father  was  a  Portuguese  gentleman,  and  his  mother  an 
eminent  vocalist.  For  some  time  he  studied  art  with 
the  intention  of  becoming  a  painter ;  but  having  made 
several  successful  ventures  in  literature,  he  afterwards 
devoted  himself  entirely  to  that  profession,  and  the 
celebrity  which  he  rapidly  achieved  justified  the  altera- 
tion of  his  plans.  The  vivacity  and  marvellous  fertility 
of  his  genius  maintain  his  wide-spread  popularity. 
He  has  displayed  his  power  as  an  essayist,  novelist, 
traveller,  and  journalist,  and  in  each  character  has  won 
new  laurels.  His  principal  works  are  —A  Journey  due 
North — being  Notes  of  a  Refidence  in  Russia  in  the  Sum- 
mer of  1856;  Twice  Round  the  Clock,  nr  the  Hours  of  the 
Day  and  Night  in  London,  1859;  The  Baddington  Peer- 
age, I860 ;  History  of  H'igarth  and  His  Times,  1860  ; 
Dutch  Pictures,  1861;  Capt<dn  Dangerous,  1863 — a  story 
somewhat  in  the  manner  of  Defoe:  My  Diary  in  America 
in,  the  Midst  of  War,  1S65;  &c.  Mr.  Sala  was  sometime 
editor  of  the  Temple  Bar  magazine ;  and  he  is  now  a 
regular  contributor  to  the  Belgravia  magazine  (edited 
by  Miss  Braddon,  thn  author  of  Lady  Audley's  Secret). 
It  is  from  the  latter  periodical  we  take  the  following 
lively  sketch  of  London  life.  ] 

Murder,  they  say,  will  out.  Surbiton  P. 
Mellor,  Esq.,  had  never  murdered  anybody, 
and  had  not  the  slightest  intention  to  become 


an  assassin;  but,  lest  you  should  imagine  that 
some  dark  and  terrible  mystery  environed  his 
being,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  briefly  and  frankly 
who  as  well  as  what  he  was.  He  was  just  a 
shrewd  pushing  young  man  of  the  nineteenth 
century  (seventh  decade),  who  had  made  his 
way,  and  meant  to  go  a  great  deal  farther  if 
he  could.  Perhaps  his  Christian  name  was 
Samuel,  with  or  without  the  Surbiton  following 
or  preceding.  His  father's  name  had  been 
certainly  Mellor — at  least  he  was  under  that 
designation  declared  a  bankrupt,  under  that 
designation  and  as  a  coal  merchant,  in  the  year 
],S36.  He  never  paid  any  dividend,  never  got 
his  certificate,  and  taking  to  drinking,  died. 
Exit  Mellor  senior.  His  widow  struggled 
through  a  dubious  existence  in  a  lodging-house 
in  Salisbury  Street,  Strand;  and  when  she  quit- 
ted this  vale  of  tears,  poor  soul,  she  had  nothing 
to  leave  her  children — a  boy  and  a  girl,  aged 
respectively  twenty-two  and  eighteen — save  the 
fag-end  of  a  lease,and  a  thin  remnant  of  remark- 
able ramshackle  furniture.  The  boy  Surbiton. 
had  been  for  some  time  earning  a  meagre  living 
in  the  counting-houses  of  divers  city  firms. 
The  girl — I  think  her  name  was  Rosa — "went 
out"  as  an  assistant  in  a  linen-draper's  shop  in. 
Regent  Street;  then  she  went  to  keep  the  books 
at  an  hotel  in  Liverpool;  then  she  married  a 
red-faced  gentleman  who  travelled  in  hemp, 
hogs'  bristles,  or  sponges-,  or  ever-pointed  pen- 
cils, or  something  in  that  line;  and  then  she 
and  her  husband  emigrated  to  Australia,  and 
drifted  down  the  great  stream  of  oblivion. 
Such  breakings -up  of  families  among  the 
smaller  middle-classes  are  common  enough. 
The  brother  was  as  fond  of  his  sister  as  need 
be;  but  he  could  not  be  always  tracing  her 
footsteps.  He  had  his  way  to  make  in  the 
world,  and  she  had  hers;  and  he  had  equitably 
divided  with  her  the  product  of  the  ramshackle 
furniture  and  the  fag-end  of  the  lease  in  Salis- 
bury Street.  He  formed  new  connections,  and 
got  on,  and  prospered.  If  sister  Rosy  had  come 
back  to  him  likewise  prosperous,  he  would  of 
course  have  been  delighted  to  see  her.  If  she 
had  returned  sick  and  poor,  he  would  have 
done  his  duty  by  her,  no  doubt;  but  Rosy  had 
written  once  or  twice,  at  long  intervals,  and 
he  had  been  too  busy  to  answer  by  return  of 
post;  and  so,  by  degrees,  the  bond  of  blood  faded 
away  to  the  very  palest  of  pink  shadows.  Now 
and  again  Surbiton  would  think  of  the  old 
days  when  he  and  his  sister  used  to  go  to  Misa 
Tattworth's  morning  seminary  in  Maiden  Lane, 
and  when  they  used  to  play  in  the  back  parlour 
of  the  dingy  house  in  Salisbury  Street, the  shrill 
scolding  of  their  mother  (who  had  a  temper) 


292 


MRS.  MELLOR'S  DIAMONDS. 


breaking  in  from  time  to  time  on  their  sports; 
but  these  recollections  grew  dimmer  and  less 
frequent  every  year.  The  world  is  so  very  wide, 
and  the  claims  of  "business"  are  so  very  absorb- 
ing. Rosy  at  the  Antipodes  perhaps  had  likewise 
her  business  to  mind.  We  cannot  always  be 
thinking  of  old  times;  and  tenacity  of  memory 
may  be  very  often  one  of  the  results  of  idleness. 
Surbiton  Mellor  continued  to  gain  ground 
in  the  race  of  life;  but  he  was  far  advanced 
towards  thirty  ere  letters  addressed  to  him 
began  to  be  addressed  Surbiton  P.  Mellor,  Esq. 
He  was  all  kinds  of  things  commercial:  clerk 
to  a  wholesale  druggist,  sampler  to  a  tea-dealer, 
traveller  to  a  tobacco-manufacturer,  book- 
keeper to  a  fashionable  West-end  tailor.  He 
had  done  law-writing;  be  had  tried  his  hand 
at  school-teaching;  he  had  made  the  round  of 
the  provinces  delivering  lectures  in  "ventila- 
tion" of  the  features  of  a  newly-formed  Life  As- 
surance Company.  His  first  important  rise  in 
the  world  was  his  appointment  as  secretary  to 
the  Company  for  Manufacturing  Lavender- 
water  from  Irish  Bog-peat.  That  led  to  con- 
nection with  the  Joots  Testimonial  Committee 
(Joots  was  a  commercial  philanthropist,  who 
was  testimonialized  to  the  extent  of  ten  thou- 
sand pounds  as  a  reward  for  having  made  a 
fortune  of  half  a  million  by  "amalgamating" 
impecunious  companies).  Subsequently  he 
became  secretary  to  the  Society  for  the  Sup- 
pression of  Snuff-taking;  and  was  one  of  the 
most  active  promoters  of  the  Anti-Pale  Ale 
League.  The  road  to  success  was  now  open; 
for  the  chairman  of  the  League  happened  to 
be  Harpie  Wyndford,  Esq.,  who  was  said  to  be 
the  son  either  of  the  Marquis  of  Malagrowthie's 
bailiff  or  of  his  butler.  When  H.  Wyndford, 
Esq.,  promoted  the  ^olian  and  Hyperborean 
Joint -stock  Bank,  and  was  appointed  paid 
secretary  thereof,  what  was  more  natural  than 
that  he  should  prefer  to  a  confidential  post 
therein  a  young  man  whose  shining  capacity 
for  business  he  had  fortunately  discerned  ? 
From  a  cashier  in  the  chief  office  Surbiton  P. 
Mellor  speedily  became  manager  of  the  Prim- 
rose-hill branch.  There,  the  murder  is  all  out 
now.  Mr.  Mellor  had  simply  "got  on"  in  the 
world.  He  may  not  have  been  ashamed  of  his 
origin,  or  of  his  early  struggles;  but  where  was 
the  need  of  his  alluding  to  them?  No  one 
impeached  him:  what  had  he  to  answer?  If  a 
man  has  a  wooden  leg,  or  a  great  scar  on  his 
face,  some  inquisitive  people  may  conceive  that 
they  have  a  right  to  inquire  how  he  came  by 
those  hurts;  but  Surbiton  Mellor  was  neither 
a  Greenwich  pensioner  nor  Le  Balafre".  His 
success  was  his  own,  hia  money  waa  his  own; 


and  both  were  honestly  earned.  He  had  a 
thousand  a  year  as  manager  of  the  branch  bank, 
but  that  was  only  a  portion  of  his  income.  He 
speculated  widely  and  profitably.  He  had  the 
revenue  of  a  gentleman,  and  he  lived  like  one, 
continuing  to  pay  as  keen  attention  to  business 
as  he  did  to  pleasure.  At  the  commencement 
of  his  career  he  waa — notwithstanding  a 
magnificent  handwriting  and  ability  to  pro- 
nounce his  A's  correctly — profoundly  illiterate; 
but,  like  many  other  young  men  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  (seventh  decade),  he  had  educated 
himself  to  a  very  fair  intellectual  status.  He 
had  taught  himself  French  and  German  out  of 
Ollendorff;  had  always  utilized  his  annual 
holidays  in  continental  trips;  had  made  careful 
epitomes  of  Adam  Smith,  Ricardo,  and  Mill; 
and  Chambers'  Educational  Course  and  the 
Penny  Cyclopedia  had  done  the  rest.  He  read 
the  morning  and  evening  newspapers  very  care- 
fully, and  could  hold  his  own  in  any  society. 
He  went  to  the  theatre  very  frequently,  and 
could  talk  about  Shakspeare  and  about  bur- 
lesques. He  had  taken  surreptitious  lessons 
from  an  instructress  who  taught  adults  to  dance 
in  twelve  lessons;  and  a  three-guinea  course  at 
a  Brompton  riding-school  had  enabled  him  to 
bestride  a  livery-stable  hack  in  Rotten  Row 
without  tumbling  off.  He  had  even  been  seen 
driving  a  mail  phaeton  in  Piccadilly  very  credit- 
ably. Wherever  he  had  learned  the  charioteer's 
accomplishment  I  must  confess  that  I  do  not 
know;  but  technics  have  their  intuitions,  and 
there  are  some  men  who  do  excellently  Avell 
that  which  they  have  never  been  taught  to  do. 
Up  to  the  age  of  thirty  Surbiton  P.  Mellor 
had  remained  a  gay  young  bachelor,  occupying, 
since  his  prosperity  had  become  a  substantial 
fact,  an  elegant  suite  of  chambers  in  Parliament 
Street,  Westminster.  In  process  of  time  it 
occurred  to  him  that  his  position  demanded 
that  he  should  take  a  house,  that  the  house  in 
question  should  be  elegantly  and  expensively 
furnished,  and  that  a  wife  would  be  a  very 
excellent  adjunct  to  the  mansion  and  to  the 
ameublement  in  question.  The  house  was  soon 
found,  and  a  handsome  sum  paid  for  a  long 
lease,  with  the  faculty  of  purchasing  the  free- 
hold when  convenient.  Nor  was  there  much 
difficulty  in  securing  a  wife  as  elegant  and  as 
expensive  as  the  furniture  of  her  destined  home. 
There  is  a  curious  section  of  society  in  London 
which  seems  to  bear  a  close  affinity  to  first-class 
upholstery,  first-class  millinery  and  dress-mak- 
ing, first-class  china,  glass,  and  table-linen, 
and  diners  a  la  Russe  sent  in  from  the  pastry- 
cook's. In  this  society  are  to  be  found  numbers 
of  young  ladiea — comely,  healthy,  virtuous, 


MRS.  MELLOK'S  DIAMONDS. 


293 


accomplished,  well  -  dressed,  well-groomed  — 
whom  you  have  only  to  pick  out,  choose,  and 
agr.e  with  the  manufacturer  as  to  the  terms  of 
parchase,  and  the  article  will  be  sent  home  with 
the  promptitude  and  despatch  expected  in  the 
delivery  of  a  new  brougham  or  a  grand  piano- 
forte. There  is  the  demand,  and  there  is  the 
supply  to  meet  it.  The  article  is  superfine, 
and  fitted  with  the  newest  improvements.  No- 
thing is  lacking — a  big  church-service,  a  hand- 
some trousseau,  bride's-maids,  brothers,  sisters, 
a  father  and  mother  in  law,  and  a  distant 
relative  in  India,  from  whom  the  article  has 
expectations.  With  any  appreciable  amount 
of  ready  money  the  article  bride  is  perhaps  not 
always  provided;  but  vast  numbers  of  the 
Surbiton  Mellors  of  the  nineteenth  century  are 
perfectly  well  contented  with  the  money  they 
have  themselves  made  or  are  making,  and  will 
endure  the  pennilessness  of  their  spouses  if 
they  are  pretty.  The  manager  of  the  Primrose- 
hill  branch  bank,  being  bidden  to  a  dinner,  to 
be  followed  by  a  carpet-dance,  at  Mr.  Harpie 
Wyndford's  residence,  Wimbledon  Common,  did 
there  and  then  fix  his  eyes  and  affections  upon 
Miss  Maude  Fenton,  youngest  (and  seventh) 
daughter  of  Captain  Fenton,  half -pay  R.  N. 
The  young  people  being  properly  introduced, 
it  became  transparently  obvious  to  everybody 
in  the  particular  circle  of  society  in  which  they 
moved,  that  Surbiton  Mellor  intended  to  pro- 
pose to  Miss  Fenton  so  soon  as  ever  he  could 
in  common  decency  pop  the  question.  The 
girl  was  as  fully  aware  of  this  as  her  mother 
and  her  feminine  cronies  were.  The  wedding 
breakfast  and  the  wedding  outfit  might,  with 
scarcely  any  deviation  from  propriety,  have 
been  ordered  within  a  fortnight  after  that  din- 
ner and  carpet-dance  at  Wimbledon.  Through 
a  proper  respect  for  lea  convenances,  the  court- 
ship was  spread  over  two  or  three  months:  but 
during  that  period  Surbiton  Mellor  was  very 
philosophically  occupied  in  furnishing  and 
decorating  his  new  house  in  Occidental  Grove, 
and  in  looking  after  the  building  of  his  new 
brougham;  while  Miss,  on  her  part,  you  may 
be  sure,  did  not  lose  her  time.  Young  ladies 
who  have  been  well  brought  up  have  an  im- 
mensity of  things  to  do  before  they  are  married. 
There  are  old  letters  to  burn,  old  scores  to  be 
settled,  old  "foolish  nonsenses"  to  be  stifled — 
for  ever.  Le  roi  est  mort;  vive  le  roi!  Ah, 
William  the  Conqueror;  ah,  Rudolph  of  Haps- 
burg,  you  think  yourselves  the  founders  of 
your  line;  but  there  were  kings  of  hearts  before 
you,  and  the  wedding  breakfast  often  contains 
some  curious  baked  meats  which  were  served 
at  the  funeral  of  your  predecessor. 


The  love-making  was  of  the  most  conven- 
tional description.  Everything  was  done  that 
should  have  been  done;  but  nothing  more.  If 
Surbiton  had  anything  to  say,  he  wrote  to  his 
intended,  and  he  wrote  affectionately;  but  he 
was  too  busy  a  man  to  waste  time  in  talking 
about  hearts  and  darts,  or  the  sun,  moon,  and 
stars,  or  in  indulging  in  vehement  declamations 
concerning  the  fervour  of  a  passion  which  he 
knew  full  well  would  ere  long  be  legitimately 
gratified.  Either  absence  or  obstacles,  jealousy 
or  doubt,  are  essential  as  fuel  in  feeding  that 
furnace  in  which  real  billet-doux  are  cooked; 
love's  freshest  honey  must  be  taken  with  the 
bitter  wax  of  the  comb  to  give  a  zest  to  the 
sweetness;  Cupid's  morning  rolls  must  be 
munched  in  secret  to  be  toothsome;  and  the 
ink  with  which  amorous  epistles  are  made 
should  be  diluted  with  stolen  waters.  Thus 
the  finest  love-letters  extant  in  the  world  are 
those  written  by  Heloise  to  Abelard,  and  by 
Mirabeau  to  Sophie — letters  which,  by  persons 
in  good  society  and  who  respected  themselves, 
would  never  have  been  written  at  all. 

It  was  a  mariage  de  reason,  if  you  will,  this 
union  between  the  prosperous  bank  manager 
and  the  pretty  penniless,  half-pay  captain's 
daughter.  For  my  part,  I  am  content  to 
maintain  that  it  was  a  marriage  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  (seventh  decade),  and  not  of  a 
three-volume  novel.  Perhaps  out  of  ten  wed- 
dings which  take  place  at  St.  George's,  Hanover 
Square,  not  more  than  one  has  had  the  slightest 
tinge  of  romance  in  its  preliminary  courtship; 
and  perhaps  nine  out  of  the  alliances  turn  out 
well,  and  the  tenth — the  romantic  one — turns 
up  some  day  in  Lord  Penzance's  dolorous  court. 
For  sound,  earnest,  and  intense  matrimonial 
hatred,  commend  me,  as  a  rule,  to  the  parties 
in  a  love-match.  Nor  be  so  foolish  as  to 
assume  that  reason  and  calmness — and  a  little 
prosiness  maybe — are  qualities  at  all  incom- 
patible with  conjugal  love — the  well-ordered 
respectable  love  which  suffices  to  cause  a  young 
man  and  woman  to  pass  thirty  or  forty  years 
of  married  life  without  open  scandal  and  with- 
out secret  explosions,  to  rear  up  a  numerous 
family,  and  to  go  down  at  last  to  the  grave 
esteemed  by  all  their  relatives  and  friends. 
Surbiton  Mellor  nurtured  naturally  sanguine 
hopes  that  such  would  be  his  matrimonial 
course.  There  was  no  skeleton  in  his  closet; 
he  was  no  Barnes  Newcome;  he  had  never 
compromised  himself;  he  owed  no  more  debts 
of  love  than  he  did  debts  of  money;  he  was 
prepared  to  be  very  fond  of  hi*  wife,  and  had 
already  made  up  his  mind  that  his  eldest  son 
should  be  christened  Surbiton.  So  in  due 


294 


MRS.  MELLOR'S  DIAMONDS. 


course  of  time — the  furnishing  and  decoration 
of  the  house  at  Bayswater  being  satisfactorily 
completed  —  Surbiton  P.  Mellor  led  Maude 
Matilda  Wilhelmina  Fenton  to  the  altar  of  St. 
James's,  Piccadilly,  or  St.  George's,  Hanover 
Square,  I  forget  which;  and  the  Rev.  Bajazet 
Bergamotte,  M.  A. ,  assisted  by  the  Rev.  Arthur 
Gwynplaine,  B.  D. ,  joined  them  together  in 
the  bonds  of  holy  matrimony;  and  there  were 
no  cards;  and  the  young  couple  spent  their 
honeymoon  in  the  Engadine,  and  found  the 
baths  of  St.  Maurice  full  of  the  most  delightful 
company. 

There  was  no  madness  in  the  Mellor- Fenton 
alliance — no  love  madness,  at  least.  Surbiton 
was  never  troubled  with  the  slightest  approach 
to  jealousy  as  regarded  his  wife.  He  knew 
very  well  that,  being  in  society  and  handsome 
and  showy,  she  must  have  admirers.  He  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  forbidding  them  to 
admire  her  as  of  covering  up  his  handsome 
furniture,  or  locking  up  his  wine-cellar.  He 
was  an  attentive  husband,  but  not  an  uxorious 
one.  He  was  eminently  reasonable,  always  in 
the  way  when  wanted,  never  inopportunely 
present.  I  believe  that  the  man  was  really 
and  sincerely  attached  to  his  wife;  that  he  had 
early  discovered  her  one  weak  point,  and  that 
her  weakness  was  not  of  a  nature  to  excite  any 
Othello-like  suspicions  on  his  part. 

Murder  will  out,  I  have  already  had  the 
honour  to  observe  in  these  pages.  Let  me  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it  as  regards  Mrs.  Surbiton 
Mellor's  foible.  The  poor  woman  was  desper- 
ately extravagant:  her  prodigality  in  dress  was 
well-nigh  inconceivable.  When  I  hint  that  she 
thought  nothing  of  giving  2£  guineas  a  pair 
for  her  stays,  my  lady  readers  will  understand 
the  scale  of  her  sumptuary  lavishness.  Her 
expenditure  in  every  other  respect  was  on  a 
commensurate  scale.  An  extravagant  person 
must  always  be  poorer  than  a  workhouse  pauper. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  year  of  her  wedded 
life  Mrs.  Surbiton  Mellor  was  desperately  in 
debt,  and  was  as  desperately  dunned  on  every 
side. 

Was  her  husband  aware  of  her  weakness,  her 
folly,  her  madness?  We  shall  see. 

It  is  difficult  for  any  person,  man  or  woman, 
to  go  to  the  deuce  financially,  without  some 
active  and  obliging  Mephistopheles  to  show 
the  way,  make  it  smooth  for  you,  open  the 
gates,  clear  the  tolls  and  bridges,  and  do  other 
friendly  acts  for  you,  until  you  are  safely 
landed  in  the  place  whence  Dante  returned, 
but  where  Eurydice  remained.  Mrs.  Surbiton 
Mellor's  Mephistopheles  was  a  certain  Madame 
Schumakers,  a  prodigious  fat  Dutchwoman 


from  Amsterdam,  and  who  looked  well-nigh 
as  solid  and  substantial  as  the  Stadt  Huis  of 
the  Batavian  capital.  She  was  the  most  mys- 
terious of  women,  carrying  jewelry  of  great 
value  in  a  dirty  market-basket,  point-lace  in 
her  umbrella,  and  undertaking  all  kinds  of 
cloudy  tasks— from  providing  false  plaits  and 
rouge  for  ladies  of  quality  to  smuggling  cigars 
and  schiedam  under  her  crinoline  on  board  the 
Rotterdam  steamers.  She  lived  anywhere  and, 
as  it  seemed,  everywhere — now  to  be  heard  of 
at  Brighton;  now  lurking  about  Bath  or  Chel- 
tenham; now  prowling  about  the  corridors  of 
the  Grand  H&tel,  Paris;  now  sending  in  occult 
messages  to  ladies  stopping  at  the  Quatres 
Saisons  at  Hombourg,  or  attending  the  petlts 
levers  of  duchesses  in  Belgravia  Square.  I 
have  met  Madame  Schumakers  myself  in  the 
verandah  of  the  Continental  Hotel,  Saratoga, 
U.S.,  where  she  told  me  she  was  "fixing" 
ladies'  hair  at  a  dollar  per  coiffure;  and  she 
lent  me  three  sovereigns  once  to  go  down  to 
the  Derby,  on  condition  that  I  left  four  pounds 
ten  for  her  on  the  ensuing  Saturday  at  the  bar 
of  the  Shoulder  of  Mutton,  Lower  Norcott 
Street,  Lambeth  Marsh. 

Poor  Maude  Matilda  Wilhelmina  had  given 
herself  up,  body  and  soul,  to  this  abdominous 
hag,  this  Witch  of  Endor  qui  avail  pris  du 
ventre.  She  was  altogether  in  the  Schumakers' 
hands,  who,  besides  providing  her  with  innum- 
erable articles  of  finery,  lent  her  money  to  pay 
something  on  account  to  the  fashionable  trades- 
people when  they  became  disagreeably  pressing 
for  the  settlement  of  their  little  accounts.  Of 
course  the  articles  were  supplied  at  extravagant 
prices,  and  the  loans  advanced  at  exorbitant 
rates  of  interest.  The  woman  was  always  at 
Mrs.  Mellor's  elbow;  she  had  always  something 
to  sell  or  something  to  lend;  until  (as  commonly 
happens  when  you  have  dealings  with  Mephis- 
topheles) she  suddenly  announced  one  fine 
morning,  at  rtie  very  height  of  the  season  of 
186 — ,  that  she  would  not  advance  another 
sixpence  or  another  pocket-handkerchief  to  her 
customer;  and  that  unless  she  was  forthwith 
paid  the  sum  of  one  hundred  pounds  in  cash, 
on  account  of  her  long  outstanding  claims,  the- 
amount  of  which,  she  declared,  exceeded  five 
hundred  pounds,  she  would  forthwith  repair  to 
office  of  the  branch  of  the  ^Eolian  and 
Hyperborean  Joint -stock  Bank,  and  inform 
Surbiton  P.  Mellor  how  matters  stood;  "an* 
den,"  said  Madame  Schumakers,  in  conclusion, 
"dere  will  pe  der  duyvel's  dondershine ! " 

This  threat  happened  to  have  been  uttered 
on  precisely  the  same  morning  which  had 
>rought  Mrs.  Mellor  by  post  a  number  of  polite 


MES.  MELLOE'S  DIAMONDS. 


2<>5 


but  most  pressing  inquiries  from,  among  other 
West-end  tradesmen,  Messrs.  Tulle  and  Tab- 
binet  of  Regent  Street,  Messrs.  Goer,  Gauffer, 
and  Gigot  of  Mount  Street,  Grosvenor  Square, 
and  Madame  Coral  ine  of  the  Burlington  Arcade 
— as  to  whether  Mrs.  Surbiton  P.  Mellor  would 
at  once  forward  them  cheques  for  the  amounts 
as  per  margin,  or  whether  they  should  instruct 
their  solicitors  to  make  application  to  Mr. 
Surbiton  P.  Mellor.  The  poor  woman  was  in 
despair.  She  had  spent  her  last  quarter's  pin- 
money  to  the  last  farthing  weeks  before.  Only 
five  days  previously  her  husband  had  presented 
her  with  a  cheque  for  fifty  pounds,  "for  the 
missionaries,"  as  he  jocosely  said.  Alas!  she 
had  paid  five-and-forty  pounds  at  once  to  the 
cannibals,  and  they  were  still  hungering  for 
her  flesh  and  her  blood. 

"  How  am  I  to  find  a  hundred  pounds?"  she 
cried  desperately.  ' '  I  could  as  easily  find  a 
hundred  millions.  I  can't  give  you  a  hundred 
pence;  and  if  you  speak  to  my  husband  I  shall 
be  utterly  and  entirely  ruined." 

"Bah!"  replied  the  Dutchwoman;  "fat  vor 
you  drubble  yourself  so  moch,  mein  tear  !  It 
is  easy  enov.  De  moneys  is  comeatterful. 
You  af  your  tiamonds." 

"My  diamonds!" 

"Yes,  surely.  De  peautiful  tiamonds  Mr. 
Mellor  (de  gind  shentlemans !)  he  puy  you  only 
last  year,  an'  gif  you  on  your  boffday  when 
you  vash  dwenty-doo." 

"But  Mr.  Mellor  likes  me  to  wear  those 
diamonds.  He  was  looking  at  them  in  my 
jewel-case  only  this  morning,  and  admiring 
them;  and  I  am  to  wear  them  this  very  night 
at  the  French  plays." 

"  Bah,  I  say  agen.  Fat  a  tear  liddle  stoopid 
lof  of  a  laty  you  are!  Dere  is  tiamonds  and 
tiamonds.  Bring  me  de  britty  liddle  dings, 
and  I  vill  ged  dem  match  by  vour  o'glock  dis 
fery  avternoon;  and  I  vill  lent  you  vivdy  bounds 
more,  and  geep  them  in  bledge,  and  lent  you 
de  oders  vich  is  baste,  and  your  hovspond  he 
not  know  nefer  one  tarn  ding  aboud  de  drick 
ve  blay.  Ah,  ah!  Ha!"  And  Madame  Schu- 
makers  took  snuff  like  an  ogress — if  ogresses 
ever  took  snuff,  which  I  believe  they  did. 

What  was  the  wretched  Maude  Matilda 
Wilhelmina  to  do?  What  but  bow  down  be- 
fore the  demon  and  obey  her?  This  interview, 
I  may  observe,  took  place  about  noon  in  the 
upper  room  of  a  house  in  Newman.  Street, 
Oxford  Street,  where  Madame  Schumakers, 
trading  under  the  name  of  Van  Tromp,  De 
Ruyter,  and  Co.,  announced  herself,  with  her 
partner  and  the  company,  to  be  dealers  in 
articles  of  vertu.  Her  victim  took  a  four- 


wheeler.  This  time  she  did  not  haggle  with 
the  cabman;  for  she  had  purposely  left  her 
house '  on  foot,  and  hastened  back  to  Gallipoli 
Villa.  She  rushed  upstairs  to  her  bedroom, 
keeping  the  cab  at  the  door;  and  an  hour 
afterwards  Madame  Schumakers,  alias  Van 
Tromp,  alias  De  Ruyter,  alias  Co.,  was  in 
possession  of  Mas.  MELLOR'S  DIAMONDS. 

Now  these  diamonds,  the  birth-day  present 
of  Surbiton  P.  Mellor,  Esq.,  and  which  had 
cost  at  Messrs.  Hancock's  no  less  a  sum  than 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  consisted  of  a 
necklace,  two  bracelets,  a  locket,  a  spray  for 
the  hair,  and  a  pair  of  ear-rings,  all  in  bril- 
liants of  the  purest  water.  They  were  to  be 
held  in  pledge  by  Madame  Schumakers  for  the 
sum  of  four  hundred  pounds,  which  she  alleged 
to  be  due  to  her,  and  were  to  be  restored  to 
Mrs.  Mellor  on  the  payment  of  four  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds ;  the  balance  being  advanced 
to  that  demented  woman  in  cash,  and  Madame 
Schumakers  very  generously  charging  nothing 
at  all  for  interest.  Meanwhile  Mrs.  Mellor 
took  home  a  morocco-case,  containing  a  suite 
of  diamonds,  which  certainly  appeared  to  be 
the  exact  counterpart  of  her  real  gems;  and  in 
this  suite  she  attended,  as  previously  arranged, 
the  performance  of  the  French  plays  with  her 
attached  husband,  and  was  infinitely  admired 
for  the  splendour  of  her  parure. 

A.  few  evenings  afterwards — they  were  to 
dine  at  home  and  alone — Mr.  Mellor  was, 
contrary  to  his  established  habits,  fully  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  late.  When  he  did  come, 
it  was  in  a  state  of  great  disorder,  and  with  a 
pale  and  disturbed  countenance.  For  a  long 
time  he  remained  silent,  and  the  dinner  was 
sent  down  untasted.  Then  he  hastily  swal- 
lowed a  glass  of  sherry;  and  after  pacing  the 
room  for  some  time,  thus  addressed  himself  to 
speech : 

"  Mall" — this  was  Irer  petit  nom — "I  have 
some  terrible  news  to  tell  you." 

She  turned  pale,  and  felt  ready  to  swoon; 
she  thought  for  a  moment  that  the  bank  had 
broken.  It  was  not  that,  however,  Ifut,  so  far 
as  her  husband  was  concerned,  even  a  worse 
calamity.  He  explained  that  he  had  recentlj 
embarked  in  very  hazardous  speculations,  and 
that  those  speculations  had  proved  unlucky. 
He  was,  he  said,  on  the  very  verge  and  brink 
of  ruin.  He  had  embezzled  a  large  amount  of 
the  funds  of  the  bank,  and  an  investigation — 
which  might  take  place  at  any  moment — would 
inevitably  lead  to  his  arrest  on  a  criminal 
charge.  He  had  raised  money,  he  said,  on  all 
his  available  property.  There  was  a  bill  of 
sale  on  the  fine  furniture  in  Gallipoli  Villa, 


296 


MRS.  MELLOR'S  DIAMONDS. 


the  lease  of  the  house  was  mortgaged:  but  he 
still  lacked  four  hundred  pounds  to  complete 
the  deficiency  in  his  accounts. 

"Four  hundred  pounds, "he concluded, would 
save  me,  or  at  least  give  me  time  to  turn  my- 
self round.  There  are  those  diamonds  of  yours, 
Mall.  I  gave  seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
for  them,  and  surely  they  ought  to  be  good  for 
four  hundred.  Mall,  my  own  dear  true  wife,  you 
must  let  me  have  those  diamonds,  and  we  must 
pawn  them.  It  grieves  me  to  the  heart  to  do 
so,  for  you  looked  superb  in  them  last  night. " 

She  blushed,  turned  pale,  stammered,  equi- 
vocated, asked  what  the  world  would  say,  and 
whether  there  were  no  other  means  of  tiding 
ever  the  difficulty.  She  was  told  that  there 
were  none;  and  as  for  the  world,  her  husband 
cried  out  passionately  that  it  might  say  what 
it  liked,  and  go  hang.  She  offered  him  all  her 
other  trinkets;  he  told  her  disdainfully  that, 
altogether,  they  would  not  fetch  a  hundred 
pounds,  and  that  he  must  have  the  diamonds. 
She  said  faintly  that  she  could  not  let  him 
have  them.  He  stared  at  her  for  some  moments 
in  blank  amazement;  and  then,  passing  from 
entreaty  to  command,  insisted  on  having  the 
jewels  forthwith;  adding  that,  if  she  did  not 
instantly  obey  him,  he  would  take  them  from 
her  by  force.  Sick  with  terror  and  apprehen- 
sion of  discovery,  the  wretched  woman  went  up- 
stairs and  returning,  brought  the  morocco-case, 
and  laid  it  tremblingly  on  the  dining-room  table. 
He  opened  the  etui,  and  sarcastically  admired 
the  sheen  and  sparkle  of  the  gems.  Then  he 
told  her  that  early  the  next  morning  they  must 
be  taken  to  the  pawnbrokers;  but  that  she 
should  go  with  him,  and  assure  herself  that  he 
had  been  telling  the  truth.  She  remembered 
the  falsity  of  the  stones,  and  the  marrow  in 
her  spine  turned  cold. 

After  a  night  spent  in  infinite  and  sleepless 
wretchedness,  the  cheerless  morning  came ;  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellor  drove  in  their  elegant 
brougham  down  to  Beaufort  Buildings,  Strand, 
at  the  corner  of  which,  at  the  time  of  which  I 
speak,  was  the  well-known  pawnbroking  estab- 
lishment of  Mr.  Amos  Scantleterry.  They 
entered  the  "private  office,"  in  which  loans  of 
too  much  importance  to  be  discussed  in  the 
vulgar  boxes  where  the  poor  pawned  their 
clothes  were  negotiated,  and  the  diamonds 
were  submitted  to  Mr.  Amos  Scantleberry, 
who  was  reputed  to  be  one  of  the  best  judges 
of  precious  stones  in  Europe.  That  gentleman 
examined  Mrs.  Mellor's  "diamonds"  minutely, 
•weighed  and  tested  them,  and  did  not  hesitate 
for  the  moment  in  advancing  on  them  the  sum 
required — four  hundred  pounds  sterling.  He 


paid  over  the  amount  at  once  in  crisp  bank- 
notes, and  a  bond  for  the  loan,  at  a  rate  of 
interest  agreed  upon,  was  made  out.  This 
document  Mr.  Mellor  handed  to  his  wife,  tell- 
ing her  sardonically,  that  she  might  very  soon 
redeem  her  finery  if  she  would  only  practise  a 
little  economy  for  a  time.  He  seemed  to  have 
become  a  very  different  personage  from  the 
Surbiton  P.  Mellor  of  the  day  before  yesterday, 
and  of  the  four  happy  years  of  their  married 
life.  At  the  pawnbroker's  door  he  handed  her 
into  her  brougham,  and  saying  that  he  had  an 
engagement  in  the  city,  left  her. 

She  went  home  half -distracted.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  hours  she  was  certain  the 
spurious  nature  of  the  gems  must  be  dis- 
covered, and  her  husband  would  be  prosecuted 
for  fraud.  What  was  she  to  do?  Why  had 
she  not  told  him  the  truth  in  the  first  instance? 
He  would  not  have  killed  her,  had  she  confessed 
that  her  real  diamonds  were  in  the  custody  of 
Madame  Schumakers.  But  then  those  em- 
bezzled1 funds  belonging  to  the  bank,  and  the 
awful  peril  he  was  in?  It  was  too  late,  and 
something  must  be  done.  She  sat  for  hours 
revolving  in  her  mind  scheme  after  scheme, 
but  none  seemed  practicable.  At  length,  with 
shame  and  horror  and  ghastly  loathing,  she  hit 
upon  one  which  appeared  feasible.  She  could 
borrow  eight  hundred  pounds;  somebody  had 
told  her  so  over  and  over  again.  Why  had  she 
not  gone  to  him  when  the  hag  Schumakers 
pressed  her?  Because  she  was  afraid  and 
ashamed.  But  the  worst  was  come  now,  and 
she  must  brave  it. 

Somebody  lived  in  very  grand  style  in  the 
Albany — and  in  very  grand  style  too — and 
was  highly  curled,  oiled,  ringed,  chained, 
pinned,  and  locketed.  Somebody's  name  was 
Mossby — Mr.  Algernon  Mossby:  and  some- 
body else — by  whom  may  be  meant  everybody 
or  anybody— declared  that  the  name  of  Alger- 
non Mossby  was  only  an  elegant  paraphrase  of 
the  less  aristocratic  appellation  of  Abraham 
Moses.  Mr.  Mossby  was  a  frequent  visitor  at 
Gallipoli  Villa;  Mr.  Mossby  had  horses  and 
carriages  and  a  yacht;  Mr.  Mossby  was  a  gay 
man,  a  fashionable  man;  and  Mr.  Mossby 
admired  Mrs.  Surbiton  P.  Mellor  to  distrac- 
tion, and  had  frequently  insinuated  that  not 
only  was  his  heart  laid  at  her  feet,  but  that  his 
purse  was  at  her  command. 

She  had  been  a  good  and  true  wife  to  her 
husband,  and  had  never  given  the  oily,  im- 
pudent, much  bejewelled  Jew  any  undue 
encouragement.  She  was  determined  to  give 
him  none  now,  dire  as  was  her  extremity. 
She  went  nevertheless  to  his  chambers  in  the 


MRS.  MELLOR'S  DIAMONDS. 


297 


Albany  within  an  hour  after  leaving  Mr.  Scan- 
tleberry's  establishment;  and  she  fell  on  her 
knees  before  Mr.  Algernon  Mossby,  and  be- 
sought him  to  save  her  from  utter  ruin  and  de- 
struction. Mr.  Mossby  behaved  with  thorough 
gallantry.  He  admitted  that  eight  hundred 
pounds  was  a  very  large  sum,  but  he  thought, 
he  said,  that  he  could  at  once  oblige  her  with 
a  cheque  for  the  amount.  For  all  security  he 
merely  required  her  note  of  hand,  payable  on 
demand  for  the  sum  of  eight  hundred  pounds 
and  for  "value  received." 

"That  is  enough,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mellor," 
said  Mr.  Algernon  Mossby,  as  he  handed  her 
the  cheque  and  locked  up  the  promissory  note 
in  his  cash-box.  "  I  will  make  my  demand 
all  in  good  time.  That  little  scrap  of  writing 
is  quite  sufficient  to  ruin  your  reputation  if 
produced;  and  I  have  no  doubt,  that  ere  I  pro- 
duce it  we  shall  have  arrived  at  a  very  satisfac- 
tory understanding.  Allow  me  to  conduct  you 
to  the  door;  the  staircase  is  rather  dark." 

Half- distraught  she  hastened  to  Mr.  Scantle- 
berry's,  stopping  on  her  way  at  the  bank  to 
get  the  cheque  cashed.  She  had  still  the  fifty 
pounds  which  the  Dutchwoman  had  advanced 
to  her  on  the  previous  day;  and  with  the  eight 
hundred  lent  to  her  by  Mr.  Algernon  Mossby, 
she  felt  that  one  great  peril  was  at  least  sur- 
mounted. Mr.  Scantleberry  seemed  somewhat 
surprised  to  see  her;  but  on  her  producing  the 
loan-bond  and  the  requisite  money,  handed 
her  over  the  diamonds.  She  hurried  then  to 
Madame  Schumakers  in  Foley  Street,  who  was 
delighted  to  see  her;  the  more  so,  she  said,  as 
she  was  starting  for  Rotterdam  that  very  even- 
ing. To  her  Mrs.  Mellor  handed  the  sum  of 
four  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  and  received 
her  jewel-case  and  her  own  diamonds.  Now 
she  felt  relieved.  She  would  hasten  back  to 
Mr.  Scantleberry 's,  re-pawn  her  diamonds,  and 
then  give  Mossby  back  half  his  money.  He 
would  surely  wait  for  the  rest.  It  was  four  in 
the  afternoon  ere  she  reached  Beaufort  Build- 
ings, and  in  a  few  half-incoherent  words  ex- 
plained that,  through  unforeseen  events,  she 
was  compelled  to  renew  the  transaction  of  the 
previous  day.  The  pawnbroker  bowed,  observed 
that  such  things  frequently  happened  in  the 
way  of  business,  and  proceeded  to  examine  the 
jewels — merely,  he  observed,  as  a  matter  of 
form.  Mrs.  Mellor  felt  perfectly  at  ease  as  he 
weighed  and  tested  them ;  in  this,  at  least, 
there  was  no  fraud,  she  thought. 

Suddenly  the  pawnbroker  fixed  upon  her 
a  searching  glance. 

"These  are  not  the  stones  you  brought  me 
yesterday,  madam,"  he  said. 


"At  all  events,"  Mrs.  Mellor  faltered  out, 
"they  are  my  own  jewels,  and  fully  worth  the 
sum  I  ask  upon  them." 

"I  only  know,"  replied  Mr.  Scantleberry, 
very  slowly  and  deliberately,  and  handing  her 
back  her  "diamonds,"  "that  the  stones  you 
brought  me  yesterday  were  genuine,  and  of 
great  value — and  that  these  are  FALSE." 

"False!" 

"False,  madam;  you  may  take  them  to  any 
lapidary — to  any  judge  of  precious  stones  in 
London,  and  he  will  tell  you  that  they  are  not 
worth  ten  pounds.  There  has  been  some  very 
ugly  mistake  here. "  And  with  a  low  bow  Mr. 
Scantleberry  retired  into  his  back  office. 

She  found  herself,  she  knew  not  how,  in  the 
street.  She  was  now  utterly,  entirely  ruined. 
She  had  no  diamonds  at  all,  either  in  pledge 
or  in  her  own  possession;  and  the  accursed  Mr. 
Algernon  Mossby  of  the  Albany  held  her  note 
of  hand  for  eight  hundred  pounds  "for  value 
received."  She  would  go  home,  she  thought, 
and  kill  herself. 

"No,  my  darling,"  said  Surbiton  P.  Mellor 
that  night,  when  she  had  thrown  herself  at  his 
feet,  and  with  passionate  tears  and  outcries 
confessed  all;  "you  are  not  ruined;  no  harm 
has  come  to  you  at  all,  or  to  me  either,  for  the 
matter  of  that.  I  have  merely  been  reading 
you  a  little  lesson,  to  cure  you  of  your  one 
fault — extravagance.  The  diamonds  I  gave 
you  on  your  birthday  were  false.  I  knew  that, 
sooner  or  later,  they  would  come  into  the  pos- 
session of  that  Dutch  beldame  Schumakers;  I 
found  the  hag  out,  and  took  her  into  my  pay; 
I  intrusted  to  her  the  real  diamonds,  which  she 
gave  you  as  imitation  ones.  They  were  the 
real  stones  we  pawned,  and  the  sham  ones 
which  you  afterwards  vainty  endeavoured  to 
pledge.  As  to  Mr.  Algernon  Mossby,  he  is 
my  very  good  friend  and  agent  to  command. 
Here  is  your  note  of  hand:  and  it  may  relieve 
your  mind  to  know,  that  I  was  concealed  in 
the  next  room  throughout  your  interview  with 
that  obliging  gentleman  in  the  Albany.  He 
will  come  no  more  to  this  house,  and  he  has 
five  hundred  good  reasons  for  holding  his 
tongue.  Now,  then,  come  and  give  me  a  kiss, 
and  to-morrow  morning  I'll  give  you  your  real 
diamonds  and  your  sham  ones  too.  Only, 
under  any  circumstances,  don't  take  either  the 
genuine  or  the  spurious  ones  to  Foley  Street, 
to  Beaufort  Buildings,  or  to  the  Albany." 

The  cure  was  efficacious  and  complete.  Mr*. 
Surbiton  P.  Mellor  has  since  made  considerable 
additions  to  her  jewel-case;  but  she  has  ceased 
to  raise  money  either  on  the  hypothecation 
of  her  personal  effects  or  on  notes  of  hand. 


293 


STANZAS. 


HOME   AT   LAST. 

Sister  Mary,  come  and  sit 

Here  beside  me  in  the  bay 

Of  the  window — ruby-lit 

With  the  last  gleams  of  the  day. 

Steeped  in  crimson  through  and  through, 

Glow  the  battlements  of  vapour; 

While  above  them,  iu  the  blue, 

Hesper  lights  his  tiny  taper. 

Look  !  the  rook  flies  westward,  darling, 

Flapping  slowly  overhead; 

See,  iu  dusky  clouds  the  starling 

Whirring  to  the  willow  bed. 

[Through  the  lakes  of  mist,  that  lie 

Breast-deep  in  the  fields  below, 

Underneath  the  darkening  eky, 

Home  the  weary  reapers  go. 

Peace  and  rest  at  length  have  come, 

All  the  day's  long  toil  is  past; 

And  each  heart  is  whispering  "Home — 

Home  at  last ! " 

Mary !  in  your  great  gray  eyes 

I  can  see  the  long-represt 

Grief,  whose  earnest  look  denies 

That  to-night  each  heart's  at  rest. 

Twelve  long  years  ago  you  parted — 

He  to  India  went  alone; 

Young  and  strong  and  hopeful-hearted — 

"Oh  he  would  not  long  be  gone." 

Twelve  long  years  have  lingered  by ; 

Youth,  and  strength,  and  hope  have  fled, 

Life  beneath  an  Indian  sky 

Withers  limb  and  whitens  head ; 

But  his  faith  has  never  faltered, 

Time  his  noble  heart  has  spared; 

Yet,  dear,  he  is  sadly  altered — 

So  he  writes  me.     Be  prepared ! 

I  have  news— good  news!     He  says — 

In  this  hurried  note  and  short — 

That  his  ship,  ere  many  days, 

Will  be  anchored  safe  in  port. 

Courage  ! — soon,  dear,  will  he  come — 

Those  few  days  will  fly  so  fast; 

Yes !  he's  coming,  Mary     Home — 

Home  at  last. 

Idle  words! — yet  strangely  fit! 
In  a  vessel  leagues  away, 
In  the  cabin,  ruby-lit 
By  the  last  gleams  of  the  day, 
Calm  and  still  the  loved  one  lies; 
Never  tear  of  joy  or  sorrow 
Shall  unseal  those  heavy  eyes — 
They  will  ope  to  no  to-morow. 
Folded  hands  upon  a  breast 
Where  no  feverish  pulses  flutter, 
Speak  of  an  unbroken  rest, 


That  no  earthly  tongue  may  utter. 
And  a  sweet  smile  seems  to  grow — 
Seems  to  hover  on  the  lip, 
As  the  shadows  come  and  go 
With  the  motion  of  the  ship. 
Rest  and  peace  at  length  have  come — 
Rest  and  peace  how  deep  and  vast; 
Weary  wanderer — truly  Home — 
Home  at  last. 

TOM  HOOD. 


STANZAS. 

There  is  a  tqngue  in  every  leaf! 

A  voice  in  every  rill ! 
A  voice  that  speaketh  everywhere, 
In  flood  and  fire,  through  earth  and  air; 

A  tongue  that's  never  still! 

'Tis  the  Great  Spirit,  wide  diffused 

Through  everything  we  see, 
That  with  our  spirits  communeth 
Of  things  mysterious — Life  and  Death, 

Time  and  Eternity. 

I  see  Him  in  the  blazing  sun, 

And  in  the  thunder-cloud ; 
I  hear  Him  in  the  mighty  roar 
That  rusheth  through  the  forests  hoar, 

When  winds  are  piping  loud. 

I  see  Him,  hear  Him,  everywhere, 

In  all  things — darkness,  light, 
Silence,  and  sound ;  but,  most  of  all, 
When  slumber's  dusky  curtains  fall 

At  the  dead  hour  of  night. 

I  feel  Him  in  the  silent  dews 

By  grateful  earth  betrayed; 
I  feel  Him  in  the  gentle  showers, 
The  soft  south  wind,  the  breath  of  flowers, 

The  sunshine,  and  the  shade. 

And  yet  (ungrateful  that  I  am !) 

I've  turned  in  sullen  mood 
From  all  these  things  whereof  He  said, 
When  the  great  whole  was  finished, 

That  they  were  "very  good." 

My  sadness  on  the  loveliest  things 

Fell  like  unwholesome  dew— 
The  darkness  that  encoinpass'd  me, 
The  gloom  I  felt  so  palpably, 

Mine  own  dark  spirit  threw. 


1  Son  of  Thomas  Hood,  the  author  of  "The  Song  of 
the  Shirt."  This  poem  is  from  "  The  Daugluera  oj  King 
Dofter,  and  other  Pvtmf." 


THE  RUSTIC   \VKEATH. 


299 


Yet  He  was  patient — slow  to  wrath, 

Though  every  day  provoked 
By  selfish,  pining  discontent, 
Acceptance  cold  or  negligent, 

And  promises  revoked. 

And  still  the  same  rich  feast  was  spread 

For  my  insensate  heart. — 
Not  always  so  —I  woke  again, 
To  join  Creation's  rapturous  strain, 

"O  Lord,  how  good  Thou  art!" 

The  clouds  drew  up,  the  shadows  fled, 

The  glorious  sun  broke  out, 
And  love,  and  hope,  and  gratitude 
Dispell'd  that  miserable  mood 

Of  darkness  and  of  doubt. 

CAROLINE  BOWLES  SOUTHEY. 


THE   RUSTIC  WREATH. 

[Mary  Russell  Mitford,  born  at  Alresford,  Hamp- 
shire, loth  December,  17S6;  died  at  Swallowfield,  near 
Heading,  10th  January,  1855.  The  extravagance  of  her 
father,  Dr.  Mitford,  dissipated  a  considerable  fortune 
which  her  mother  had  possessed,  and  also  made  away 
with  £20,000  which  Miss  Mitford,  at  the  age  often,  had 
obtained  as  a  prize  in  a  lottery.  It  w;ts  the  pecuniary 
difficulties  of  her  family  which  suggested  to  her  the 
idea  of  authorship  as  a  profession,  and  in  1800  she  began 
her  literary  career  with  a  volume  of  Miscellaneous  Verse, 
which  was  favourably  received  everywhere  except  in 
the  Quarterly.  In  the  succeeding  year  she  made  a  more 
ambitious  venture,  and  issued  Christina,  or  the  Maid 
of  the  South  Seas,  a  narrative  poem  founded  on  the 
romantic  incidents  which  followed  the  mutiny  of  the 
Bounty.  Her  genius  and  persevering  energy  achieved 
the  greatest  success  in  poetry,  drama,  and  fiction.  Of 
her  plays  the  most  iiotaMe  are,  Julian,  a  Tragedy,  first 
performed  in  1823  with  Macready  in  the  part  of  hero; 
The  Foscari,  a  Tragedy,  18-6;  Rienzi,  1828  ;  and  Charles 
t/ie  First.  But  of  all  her  works  the  most  widely  appre- 
ciated is  Ou.r'Village :  Sketches  of  Rural  Characttr  and 
Scenery.  The  first  of  these  sketches  appeared  in  the 
Lady's  Magazine,  1819 ;  they  were  subsequently  collected, 
and  with  the  additions  made  to  them  from  year  to  year 
formed  five  volumes — the  first  having  been  published 
in  1824,  the  last  in  18.'i2.  In  the  Nodes,  Christopher 
North  speaks  of  Miss  Mitford  as  "that  charming 
painter  of  rural  life;"  and  the  Shepherd  says,  "Oh,  sir, 
but  that  leddy  has  a  fine  and  bauld  hand,  either  at  a 
sketch  or  finished  picture."  Her  Recollections  of  a 
Literary  Life  (1852)  form  a  work  full  of  useful  memo- 
randa about  books,  places,  and  people.  Bentley  and  Son 
have  recently  published  in  three  volumes  a  life  of  Miss 
Mitford,  "told  by  herself  in  letters  to  her  friends."  It 
is  edited  by  the  Rev.  A.  G.  L'Estrange,  and  has  an 
introductory  memoir  by  the  late  Rev.  William  Harness, 
her  literary  executor.] 

I  had  taken  refuge  in  a  harvest-field  belong- 
ing to  my  good  neighbour,  Farmer  Creswell: 
a  beautiful  child  lay  on  the  ground,  at  some 


little  distance,  whilst  a  young  girl,  resting 
from  the  labour  of  reaping,  was  twisting  a  rustic 
wreath — enamelled  corn-flowers,  brilliant  pop- 
pies, snow-white  lily-bines,  and  light  fragile 
harebells,  mingled  with  tufts  of  the  richest 
wheat-ears — around  its  hat. 

There  was  something  in  the  tender  youth- 
fulness  of  these  two  innocent  creatures,  in  the 
pretty,  though  somewhat  fantastic,  occupation 
of  the  girl,  the  fresh  wild  flowers,  the  ripe  and 
swelling  corn,  that  harmonized  with  the  season 
and  the  hour,  and  conjured  up  memories  of 
"Dis  and  Proserpine,"  and  of  all  that  is 
gorgeous  and  graceful  in  old  mythology — of 
the  lovely  Lavinia  of  our  own  poet,  and  of 
that  finest  pastoral  in  the  world,  the  far  lovelier 
Ruth.  But  these  fanciful  associations  soon 
vanished  before  the  real  sympathy  excited  by 
the  actors  of  the  scene,  both  of  whom  were 
known  to  me,  and  both  objects  of  a  sincere 
and  lively  interest. 

The  young  girl,  Dora  Creswell,  was  the 
orphan  niece  of  one  of  the  wealthiest  yeomen 
in  our  part  of  the  world,  the  only  child  of  his 
only  brother;  and,  having  lost  both  her  parents 
whilst  still  an  infant,  had  been  reared  by  her 
widowed  uncle  as  fondly  and  carefully  as  his 
own  son  Walter.  He  said  that  he  loved  her 
quite  as  well,  perhaps  he  loved  her  better; 
for,  although  it  were  impossible  for  a  father 
not  to  be  proud  of  the  bold,  handsome  youth, 
who  at  eighteen  had  a  man's  strength  and  a 
man's  stature,  was  the  best  ringer,  the  best 
cricketer,  and  the  best  shot  in  the  county,  yet 
the  fair  Dora,  who,  nearly  ten  years  younger, 
was  at  once  his  handmaid,  his  housekeeper, 
his  plaything,  and  his  companion,  was  evi- 
dently the  very  apple  of  his  eye.  Our  good 
farmer  vaunted  her  accomplishments,  as  men 
of  his  class  are  wont  to  boast  of  a  high-bred 
horse  or  a  favourite  grayhound.  She  could 
make  a  shirt  and  a  pudding,  darn  stockings, 
rear  poultry,  keep  accounts,  and  read  the  news- 
paper: was  as  famous  for  gooseberry  wine  as 
Mrs.  Primrose,  and  could  compound  a  syllabub 
with  any  dairy-woman  in  the  county.  There 
was  not  such  a  handy  little  creature  anywhere; 
so  thoughtful  and  trusty  about  the  house,  and 
yet,  out  of  doors,  as  gay  as  a  lark,  and  as  wild 
as  the  wind — nobody  was  like  his  Dora.  So 
said  and  so  thought  Farmer  Creswell ;  and, 
before  Dora  was  ten  years  old,  he  had  resolved 
that,  in  due  time,  she  should  marry  his  son 
Walter,  and  had  informed  both  parties  of  his 
intention. 

Now,  Farmer  Creswell's  intentions  were  well 
known  to  be  as  unchangeable  as  the  laws  of 
the  Medes  and  Persians.  He  was  a  fair  sped- 


300 


THE  KUSTIC  WREATH. 


men  of  an  English  yeoman,  a  tall,  square-built, 
muscular  man,  stout  and  active,  with  a  reso- 
lute countenance,  a  keen  eye,  and  an  intelli- 
gent smile:  his  temper  was  boisterous  and 
irascible,  generous  and  kind  to  those  whom  he 
loved,  but  quick  to  take  offence,  and  slow  to 
pardon,  expecting  and  exacting  implicit  obe- 
dience from  all  about  him.  With  all  Dora's 
good  gifts,  the  sweet  and  yielding  nature  of 
the  gentle  and  submissive  little  girl  was  un- 
doubtedly the  chief  cause  of  her  uncle's  par- 
tiality. Above  all,  he  was  obstinate  in  the 
very  highest  degree,  had  never  been  known  to 
yield  a  point  or  change  a  resolution ;  and  the 
fault  was  the  more  inveterate  because  he  called 
it  firmness,  and  accounted  it  a  virtue.  For 
the  rest,  he  was  a  person  of  excellent  principle 
and  perfect  integrity  ;  clear-headed,  prudent, 
and  sagacious  ;  fond  of  agricultural  experi- 
ments, and  pursuing  them  cautiously  and  suc- 
cessfully; a  good  farmer,  and  a  good  man. 

His  son,  Walter,  who  was,  in  person,  a 
handsome  likeness  of  his  father,  resembled 
him  also  in  many  points  of  character;  was 
equally  obstinate,  and  far  more  fiery,  hot,  and 
bold.  He  loved  his  pretty  cousin  mucli  as  he 
would  have  loved  a  favourite  sister,  and  might, 
very  possibly,  if  let  alone,  have  become  at- 
tached to  her  as  his  father  wished:  but  to  be 
dictated  to,  to  be  chained  down  to  a  distant 
engagement ;  to  hold  himself  bound  to  a  mere 
child — the  very  idea  was  absurd — and  re- 
straining, with  difficulty,  an  abrupt  denial, 
he  walked  down  into  the  village,  predisposed, 
out  of  sheer  contradiction,  to  fall  in  love  with 
the  first  young  woman  who  should  come  in  his 
way — and  he  did  fall  in  love  accordingly. 

Mary  Hay,  the  object  of  his  ill-fated  passion, 
was  the  daughter  of  the  respectable  mistress 
of  a  small  endowed  school  at  the  other  side  of 
the  parish.  She  was  a  delicate,  interesting 
creature,  with  a  slight  drooping  figure,  and  a 
fair,  downcast  face  like  a  snow-drop,  forming 
such  a  contrast  with  her  gay  and  gallant 
wooer,  as  Love,  in  his  vagaries,  is  often  pleased 
to  bring  together.  The  courtship  was  secret 
and  tedious,  and  prolonged  from  months  to 
years  ;  for  Mary  shrank  from  the  painful  con- 
test which  she  knew  that  an  avowal  of  their 
attachment  would  occasion.  At  length  her 
mother  died,  and,  deprived  of  a  home  and 
maintenance,  she  reluctantly  consented  to  a 
private  marriage.  An  immediate  discovery 
ensued,  and  was  followed  by  all  the  evils,  and 
more  than  all,  that  her  worst  fears  had  anti- 
cipated. Her  husband  was  turned  from  the 
house  of  his  father,  and,  in  less  than  three 
months,  his  death,  by  an  inflammatory  fever, 


left  her  a  desolate  and  penniless  widow,  un- 
owned and  unassisted  by  the  stern  parent,  on 
whose  unrelenting  temper  neither  the  death  of 
his  son  nor  the  birth  of  his  grandson  seemed 
to  make  the  slightest  impression.  But  for  the 
general  sympathy  excited  by  the  deploral  le 
situation,  and  blameless  deportment,  of  the 
widowed  bride,  she  and  her  infant  must  have 
taken  refuge  in  the  workhouse.  The  whole 
neighbourhood  was  zealous  to  relieve  and  to 
serve  them  ;  but  their  most  liberal  benefactress, 
their  most  devoted  friend,  was  poor  Dora. 
Considering  her  uncle's  partiality  to  herself  as 
the  primary  cause  of  all  this  misery,  she  felt 
like  a  guilty  creature ;  and  casting  off  at  once 
her  native  timidity  and  habitual  submission, 
she  had  repeatedly  braved  his  anger  by  the 
most  earnest  supplications  for  mer.-y  and  for 
pardon;  and  when  this  proved  unavailing,  she 
tried  to  mitigate  their  distresses  by  all  the 
assistance  that  her  small  means  would  admit. 
Every  shilling  of  her  pocket-money  she  ex- 
pended on  her  dear  cousins;  worked  for  them, 
begged  for  them,  and  transferred  to  them  every 
present  that  was  made  to  herself,  from  the 
silk  frock  to  a  penny  tartlet.  Everything  that 
was  her  own  she  gave,  but  nothing  of  her 
uncle's ;  for,  though  sorely  tempted  to  transfer 
some  of  the  plenty  around  her  to  those  whose 
claim  seemed  so  just,  and  whose  need  was  so 
urgent,  Dora  felt  that  she  was  trusted,  and 
that  she  must  prove  herself  trustworthy. 

Such  was  the  posture  of  affairs  at  the  time 
of  my  encounter  with  Dora  and  little  Walter 
in  the  harvest  field :  the  rest  will  be  best  told 
in  the  course  of  our  dialogue : — 

"And  so,  madam,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  my 
dear  cousin  Mary  so  sick  and  so  melancholy  ; 
and  the  dear,  dear  child,  that  a  king  might  be 
proud  of — only  look  at  him!"  exclaimed  Dora, 
interrupting  herself,  as  the  beautiful  child, 
sitting  on  the  ground,  in  all  the  placid  dignity 
of  infancy,  looked  up  at  me,  and  smiled  in  my 
face.  "Only  look  at  him!"  continued  she, 
"and  think  of  that  dear  boy  and  his  dear 
mother  living  on  charity,  and  they  my  uncle's 
lawful  heirs,  whilst  I,  that  have  no  right 
whatsoever,  no  claim,  none  at  all,  I  that,  com- 
pared to  them,  am  but  a  far-off  kinswoman, 
the  mere  creature  of  his  bounty,  should  revel 
in  comfort  and  in  plenty,  and  they  starving! 
I  cannot  bear  it,  and  I  will  not.  And  then 
the  wrong  that  he  is  doing  himself;  he  that  is 
really  so  good  and  kind,  to  be  called  a  hard- 
hearted tyrant  by  the  whole  country  side. 
And  he  is  unhappy  himself,  too ;  1  know  that 
he  is.  So  tired  as  he  comes  home,  he  will 
walk  about  his  room  half  the  night;  and  often, 


THE  RUSTIC  WREATH. 


301 


p.t  meal -times,  he  will  drop  his  knife  and  fork, 
and  sigh  so  heavily.  He  may  turn  me  out  of 
doors,  as  he  threatened ;  or,  what  is  worse,  call 
me  ungrateful  or  undutiful,  but  he  shall  see 
this  boy." 

"He  never  has  seen  him,  then?  and  that  is 
why  you  are  tricking  him  out  so  prettily?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  Mind  what  I  told  you, 
Walter ;  and  hold  up  your  hat,  and  say  what 
I  bid  you." 

"  Gan-papa's  fowers!"  stammered  the  pretty 
boy,  in  his  sweet  childish  voice,  the  first  words 
that  I  had  ever  heard  him  speak. 

"Grand-papa's  flowers!"  said  his  zealous 
preceptress. 

"Gan-papa's  fowers!"  echoed  the  boy. 

"Shall  you  take  the  child  to  the  house, 
Dora?"  asked  I. 

"  No,  ma'am ;  I  look  for  my  uncle  here  every 
minute,  and  this  is  the  best  place  to  ask  a 
favour  in,  for  the  very  sight  of  the  great  crop 
puts  him  in  good  humour;  not  so  much  on 
account  of  the  profits,  but  because  the  land 
never  bore  half  so  much  before,  and  it's  all 
owing  to  his  management  in  dressing  and  drill- 
ing. I  came  reaping  here. to-day  on  purpose 
to  please  him:  for  though  he  says  he  does  not 
wish  me  to  work  in  the  fields,  I  know  he  likes 
it ;  and  here  he  shall  see  little  Walter.  Do 
you  think  he  can  resist  him,  ma'am?"  con- 
tinued Dora,  leaning  over  her  infant  cousin 
with  the  grace  and  fondness  of  a  young  Ma- 
donna ;  "  do  you  think  he  can  resist  him,  poor 
child,  so  helpless,  so  harmless ;  his  own  blood 
too,  and  so  like  his  father?  No  heart  could 
be  hard  enough  to  hold  out,  and  I  am  sure 
that  his  will  not.  Only," — pursued  Dora,  re- 
lapsing into  her  girlish  tone  and  attitude,  as 
a  cold  fear  crossed  her  enthusiastic  hope — 
"only  I'm  half  afraid  that  Walter  will  cry. 
It's  strange,  when  one  wants  anything  to  be- 
have particularly  well,  how  sure  it  is  to  be 
naughty ;  my  pets  especially.  I  remember 
when  my  Lady  Countess  came  on  purpose  to 
see  our  white  peacock  that  we  got  in  a  present 
from  India,  the  obstinate  bird  ran  away  behind 
a  bean-stack,  and  would  not  spread  his  train, 
to  show  the  dead  white  spots  on  his  glossy 
white  feathers,  all  we  could  do.  Her  ladyship 
was  quite  angry.  And  my  red  and  yellow 
Marvel  of  Peru,  which  used  to  blow  at  four  in 
the  afternoon  as  regular  as  the  clock  struck, 
was  not  open  at  five  the  other  day  when  dear 
Miss  Julia  came  to  paint  it,  though  the  sun 
was  shining  as  bright  as  it  does  now.  If 
Walter  should  scream  and  cry,  for  my  uncle 
does  sometimes  look  so  stern — and  then  it's 
Saturday,  and  he  has  such  a  beard!  If  the 


child  should  be  frightened!     Be  sure,  Walter, 
that  you  don't  cry!"  said  Dora  in  great  alarm. 

"Gan-papa's  fowers!"  replied  the  smiling 
boy,  holding  up  his  hat ;  and  his  young  pro- 
tectress was  comforted. 

At  this  moment  the  farmer  was  heard 
whistling  to  his  dog  in  a  neighbouring  field  ; 
and,  fearful  that  my  presence  might  injure 
the  cause,  I  departed,  my  thoughts  full  of  the 
noble  little  girl  and  her  generous  purpose. 

I  had  promised  to  call  the  next  afternoon 
to  learn  her  success ;  and  passing  the  harvest- 
field  in  my  way,  found  a  group  assembled 
there  which  instantly  dissipated  my  anxiety. 
On  the  very  spot  where  we  had  parted,  I  saw 
the  good  farmer  himself,  in  his  Sunday-clothes, 
tossing  little  Walter  in  the  air;  the  child 
laughing  and  screaming  with  delight,  and  his 
grandfather  apparently  quite  as  much  delighted 
as  himself;  a  pale,  slender  young  woman,  in 
deep  mourning,  stood  looking  at  their  gambols 
with  an  air  of  intense  thankfulness ;  and  Dora, 
the  cause  and  the  sharer  of  all  this  happiness, 
was  loitering  behind,  playing  with  the  flowers 
in  Walter's  hat,  which  she  was  holding  in  her 
hand.  Catching  my  eye,  the  sweet  girl  came 
to  me  instantly. 

"I  see  how  it  is,  my  dear  Dora,  and  I  give 
you  joy,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

"  Little  Walter  behaved  well,  then?" 

"  Oh,  he  behaved  like  an  angel!" 

"Did  he  say  Gan-papa's  fowers?" 

"Nobody  spoke  a  word.  The  moment  the 
child  took  off  his  hat  and  looked  up,  the  truth 
seemed  to  flash  on  my  uncle  and  to  melt  his 
heart  at  once;  the  boy  is  so  like  his  father. 
He  knew  him  instantly,  and  caught  him  up  in 
his  arms  and  hugged  him,  just  as  he  is  hug- 
ging him  now. " 

"  And  the  beard,  Dora?" 

"Why,  that  seemed  to  take  the  child's  fancy: 
he  put  up  his  little  hands  and  stroked  it ;  and 
laughed  in  his  grandfather's  face,  and  flung 
his  chubby  arms  round  his  neck,  and  held  out 
his  sweet  mouth  to  be  kissed; — and,  oh!  how 
my  uncle  did  kiss  him!  I  thought  he  would 
never  have  done ;  and  then  he  sat  down  on  a 
wheat-sheaf  and  cried ;  and  I  cried  too.  Very 
strange,  that  one  should  cry  for  happiness!" 
added  Dora,  as  some  large  drops  fell  on  the 
rustic  wreath  which  she  was  adjusting  round 
Walter's  hat:  "very  strange,"  repeated  she, 
looking  up,  with  a  bright  smile,  and  brushing 
away  the  tears  from  her  rosy  cheeks,  with  a 
bunch  of  corn-flowers — "very  strange  that  I 
should  cry  when  I  am  the  happiest  creature 
alive  ;  for  Mary  and  Walter  are  to  live  with  us; 
and  my  dear  uncle,  instead  of  being  angry 


302 


DEATH  OF  GERTRUDE. 


with  me,  says  that  he  loves  me  better  than 
ever.  How  very  strange  it  is,"  said  Dora,  as 
the  tears  poured  down  faster  and  faster,  "that 
I  should  be  so  foolish  as  to  cry!" 


WYOMING. 

On  Susquehana's  side,  fair  Wyoming ! 

Although  the  wild  flower  on  thy  ruiu'd  wall 

And  roofless  homes  a  sad  remembrance  bring 

Of  what  thy  gentle  people  did  befall, 

Yet  thou  wert  once  the  loveliest  land  of  all 

That  see  the  Atlantic  wave  their  morn  restore. 

Sweet  land  !  may  I  thy  lost  delights  recall, 

And  paint  thy  Gertrude  in  her  bowers  of  yore, 

Whose  beauty  was  the  love  of  Pennsylvania's  shore  I 

Delightful  Wyoming !  beneath  thy  skies, 
The  happy  shepherd  swains  had  nought  to  do 
But  feed  their  flocks  on  green  declivities, 
Or  skim  perchance  thy  lake  with  light  canoe, 
From  morn,  till  evening's  sweeter  pastime  grew, 
With  timbrel,  when  beneath  the  forests  brown 
Thy  lovely  maidens  would  the  dance  renew : 
And  aye  those  sunny  mountains  half  way  down 
Would  echo  flagelet  from  some  romantic  town. 

Then,  where  of  Indian  hills  the  daylight  takes 
His  leave,  how  might  you  the  flamingo  see 
Disporting  like  a  meteor  on  the  lakes — 
And  playful  squirrel  on  his  nut-grown  tree : 
And  ev'ry  sound  of  lift)  was  full  of  glee, 
From  merry  mock  bird's  song,  or  hum  of  men ; 
While  heark'ning,  fearing  nought  their  revelry, 
The  wild  deer  arch'd  his  neck  from  glades,  and  then, 
Unlimited,  sought  his  woods  and  wilderness  again. 

And  scarce  had  Wyoming  of  war  or  crime 
Heard  but  in  transatlantic  story  rung, 
For  here  the  exile  met  from  ev'ry  clime, 
And  spoke  in  friendship  ev'ry  distant  tongue: 
lien  from  the  blood  of  warring  Europe  sprung 
Were  but  divided  by  the  running  brook  ; 
And  happy  where  no  Rhenish  trumpet  sung, 
On  plains  no  sieging  mine's  volcano  shook, 
The  blue-eyed  German  changed  his  sword  to  pruning- 
hook. 

Nor  far  some  Andalusian  saraband 

Would  sound  to  many  a  native  roundelay. 

But  who  is  he  that  yet  a  dearer  land 

Remembers,  over  hills  and  far  awayt 

Green  Albyn  I '  what  though  he  no  more  survey 

Thy  ships  at  anchor  on  the  quiet  shore, 

Thy  pellochs  rolling  from  the  mountain  bay, 

Thy  lone  sepulchral  cairn  upon  the  moor, 

And  distant  isles  that  heir  the  loud  Corbrechtan  roar  !* 


1  Scotland. 

2  The  great  whirlpool  of  the  Western  Hebrides. 


Alas !  poor  Caledonia's  mountaineer, 
That  want's  stern  edict  e'er,  and  feudal  grief, 
Had  forced  him  from  a  home  he  loved  so  dear ! 
Yet  found  he  here  a  home,  and  glad  relief. 
And  plied  the  beverage  from  his  own  fair  sheaf, 
That  fired  his  Highland  blood  with  mickle  glee; 
And  England  sent  her  men,  of  men  the  chief, 
Who  taught  those  sires  of  empire  yet  to  be, 
To   plant  the  tree  of  life— to  plant  fair  freedom'! 
tree. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


DEATH   OF  GERTRUDE. 

"  Clasp  me  a  little  longer,  on  the  brink 
Of  fate !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress, 
And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat — O  think, 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess, 
That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tendernesB, 
And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 
Oh  !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 
And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs — when  I  am  laid  In 
dust !  • 

''Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart, 
The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  mov% 
Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart, 
And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstacy  to  rove 
With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 
Of  peace — imagining  her  lot  was  cast 
In  heav'n  ;  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 
And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last? 
No!    I  shall  love   thee  still,  when  death  itself  is 
past. 

"  Half  could  I  bear,  methinks,  to  leave  this  earth — 

And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun, 

If  I  head  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 

Of  one  dear  pledge; — but  shall  there  then  be  none 

In  future  times — no  gentle  little  one, 

To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me  1 

Yet  seems  it,  ev'n  while  life's  last  pulses  run, 

A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 

Lord  of  my  bosom's  love !  to  die  beholding  thee !" 

Hush'd  were   his  Gertrude's    lips!   but  still  tbeir 

bland 

And  beautiful  expression  seem'd  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die !  and  still  his  hand 
She  pi-esses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 
Ah  heart !  where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt, 
And  features  yet  that  spoke  a  soul  more  fair. 
Mute,  gazing,  agonizing  as  he  knelt — 
Of  them  that  stood  encircling  his  despair, 
He  heard  some  friendly  words— but  knew  not  what 
they  were. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL, 


SCHOOL  FRIENDSHIP. 


303 


SCHOOL  FRIENDSHIP. 

Colonel  and  Mrs.  Nightingale  reside  in 
Albemarle  Street.  The  colonel's  movements 
may  be  said  to  form  the  two  sides  of  an  obtuse- 
angled  triangle:  that  is  to  say,  he  rides  into 
Hyde  Park  before  dinner,  and  to  the  Opera- 
house  in  the  Haymarket  after  it.  Mrs.  Night- 
ingale reads  the  English  poets:  she  possesses 
them  all  neatly  bound,  placed  upon  a  species 
of  literary  dumb-waiter.  When  tired  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  she  has  only  to  give  her  satin- 
wood  machine  a  jerk,  and  Cain  a  Mystery 
tumbles  into  her  lap.  About  two-and-thirty 
years  ago1,  Jack  Nightingale  (as  he  was  then 
called)  quitted  Westminster  School.  His  most 
intimate  crony  at  that  establishment  was  George 
Withers,  a  fair  round-faced  boy  with  flaxen 
hair.  Old  General  Nightingale,  Jack's  father, 
used  to  call  him  "the  sweet  little  cherub," 
partly  with  reference  to  the  chubby-cheeked 
ornaments  of  old  tombstones,  and  partly  to 
Dibdin's  celebrated  ballad,  which  introduces 
that  bodiless  personage  at  the  close  of  every 
stanza.  The  cherub  would  often  accompany 
young  Nightingale  to  dine  with  the  General, 
in  Hertford  Street,  May  Fair.  Upon  these 
occasions,  the  latter  would  take  upon  him  to 
cross-examine  his  visitant  in  Latin.  The 
general  seldom  advanced  into  the  Roman  ter- 
ritories beyond  "  Mars,  Bacchus,  Apollo,"  but 
he  continued,  nevertheless,  to  make  George 
Withers  sit  very  uneasy  upon  his  chair.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  the  friendship  of  the  two  boys 
was  most  exemplary:  I  am  as  fond  of  new 
quotations  as  the  author  of  Saint  Ronaris  Well, 
and  shall  therefore  satisfy  myself  with  assert- 
ing that 

"  In  infancy  their  hopes  and  fears 
Were  to  each  other  known." 

Time  makes  terrible  havoc  with  school 
friendships.  Jack  Nightingale  quitted  West- 
minster, and  became  a  member  of  his  father's 
profession ;  George  Withers  entered  the  church, 
and  became  curate  of  Scoresby,  in  Yorkshire. 
For  the  first  six  months  nothing  could  be  more 
constant  than  their  correspondence.  Many  a 
one  shilling  and  ninepence  of  theirs  did  my  lords 
the  Joint  Postmaster  pocket :  after  that  period 
the  attachment  hung  fire,  like  the  New  Post- 
office  itself  in  St.  Martin's  le  Grand.  Some- 
thing of  importance  was  continually  occurring 
to  abbreviate  their  epistles:  Jack  Nightingale 
had  to  try  on  a  new  hussar  cap,  and  George 
Withers  had  to  bury  an  old  woman, — "  So  no 


more  at  present  from,"  &c.  &c.  The  case  is  by 
no  means  a  singular  one.  Gibbon,  when  living 
at  Lausanne,  was  always  hammering  out  an 
excuse  for  not  writing  to  his  friend  Lord 
Sheffield.  The  fault,  in  these  cases,  seems  to 
consist  in  attempting  to  apologize:  why  not 
boldly  leave  off  writing  at  once,  and  imitate 
the  man  with  a  toothache,  who,  after  being 
pestered  with  seven  civil  inquiries  from  a  friend, 
couched  in  the  accustomed  phrase,  "  How  do 
you  find  yourself  now?"  at  length  answered, 
"When  there  is  any  alteration  I  will  let  you 
know." 

The  revolutionary  French  war  now  broke 
out,  and  Cornet  Nightingale  joined  his  regi- 
ment in  Flanders.  Two  letters,  "  like  angel 
visits"  (anothernew  quotation),  were  despatched 
by  him  to  his  clerical  Orestes,  from  before 
Valenciennes.  In  one  of  these  the  following 
phrase  occurred,  "Our  troops  have  sat  down 
before  the  town." — George  Withers  in  his 
reply  observed,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it, 
for  the  poor  fellows  must  have  been  sadly 
tired."  Our  military  Pylades  took  this  as  a 
joke,  but  I  confidently  believe  that  it  was 
written  in  sober  seriousness.  George  Withers 
had  heard  talk  of  camp-stools,  and  concluded 
that  the  Duke  of  York  had  provided  his  weary 
troops  with  a  due  assortment  of  them.  Upon 
the  firing  of  these  two  epistolary  shots,  both 
batteries  were  silenced. 

After  a  lapse  of  upwards  of  thirty  years,  one 
fine  Saturday  afternoon,  in  the  last  variable 
month  of  March,  when  Colonel  Nightingale  had 
availed  himself  of  a  gleam  of  sunshine  to  take 
his  canter  in  the  park,  his  lady,  busied  at  her 
rotatory  book-stand,  heard  a  hard  double  rap 
at  the  street  door.  The  two  heavy  concussions 
made  her  think  it  was  either  a  twopenny  post- 
man or  a  twopenny  creditor.  In  either  case 
the  affair  excited  but  little  emotion.  John, 
however,  in  a  few  seconds  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  and  informed  his  mistress  that  a  fat 
man  wished  particularly  to  see  Colonel  Night- 
ingale or  his  lady.  "Show  him  up,"  said 
Mrs.  Nightingale,  "  but  leave  the  door  ajar, 
and  remain  within  call."  The  door  was  re- 
opened, and  in  walked  the  Rev.  George  Withers. 
He  begged  pardon  for  intruding;  but,  being 
summoned  up  to  town  to  attend  a  trial  (here 
he  produced  the  subposna),  he  could  not  for 
the  life  of  him  avoid  calling  upon  his  old  friend 
and  school-fellow,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
thirty  years  and  upwards :  he  had  had  a  vast 
deal  of  trouble  in  finding  him  out:  at  the 
Horse  Guards  he  was  referred  to  the  United 
Service  Club :  he  had  turned,  by  mistake,  into 
a  large  glass  shop,  in  what  used,  thirty  years 


30i 


SCHOOL   FRIENDSHIP. 


agi,  to  be  called  Cock-pur  Street,  but  the  name 
was  now  changed  to  Pall  Mall  East,  why  he 
could  not  devise:  the  man  at  the  counter  was 
very  civil,  that  he  must  say  for  him,  but  could 
give  him  no  information:  the  two  sentinels 
fronting  Carlton  Palace  had  contented  them- 
selves with  shaking  their  heads:  but  at  length, 
Mr.  Samms  the  bookseller,  at  tho  corner  of  St. 
James's  Street,  had  cast  his  eye  over  a  little  j 
thick  red  book,  called  Boyle's  Court  Guide,  and  ; 
had  directed  him  to  the  proper  place.     Mrs.  | 
Nightingale  received  Mr.   Withers,  notwith-  ; 
standing  the  decided  mauvaiv  ton  of  his  aspect, 
with  great  politeness.     She  intimated  that  she 
had  often  heard  the  colonel  speak  of  his  ffiend 
Withers,  and  how  delighted  he  should  be  to  ; 
meet  with  him  again:  the  colonel  was  riding 
in  Hyde  Park;  but  she  hoped  and  trusted  that 
Mr.  Withers  would  name  an  early  day  for  par-  ! 
taking  of  a  family  dinner  in  Albemarle  Street.  ; 
Mr.  Withers  looked  a  little  duller  than  usual 
at  this  sine  die  adjournment,  and  said  that  he  ! 
must  go  back  to  Scorcsby  on  the  morrow.    Mrs.  | 
Nightingale  hereupon  hoped  that  Mr.  Withers  ! 
would  so  far  oblige  them  as  to  partake  of  their  I 
humble  fare  to-day.     The  reverend  gentlemen  j 
acquiesced  with  alacrity;  and  after  many  bows,  j 
and  backing  against  a  frail  mahogany  table,  i 
surmounted    with     a    chess-board,    whereby 
knights  and  pawns  were  precipitated  to  the 
ground,  took  his  departure  to  the  New  Hum-  j 
mums. — "  I  have  invited  a  friend  to  dine  with  - 
you  to -day,  "said  Mrs.  Nightingale,  as  her  spouse 
with  splashed  boots  entered  the  room.     The  | 
brow  of  Colonel  Nightingale  lowered — "My 
dear,  how  could  you  be  so  dreadfully  incon- 
siderate :  are  you  aware  that  it  is  opera  night  ?" 
"  True,"  rejoined  the  lady,  "  but  the  gentle- 
man is  obliged  to  quit  town  to-morrow. "    "  He 
must  be  a  very  extraordinary  gentleman  if  he 
induces  me  to  postpone  Catalani."     "  I  think, 
notwithstanding,  that  that  consequence  will 
follow,   when  you  learn  who  it  is."     "And 
pray,   who  is  it?"     "What  do  you  think  of 
George  Withers."     "What,  my  old  crony  at 
Westminster?"       "Yes,     he."       "My    dear 
Augusta,  you  have  acted  with  your  accustomed 
good  sense.     George  Withers!  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  see  him!     Why,  it  is  nearly  twenty 
years  since  we  last  saw  each  other."     "  For 
nearly  twenty,  read  upwards  of  thirty,"  thought 
Mrs.  Nightingale,  but  she  was  too  good  a  wife 
to  give  the  erratum  utterance. 

Precisely  at  half-past  six  the  same  sort  of 
heavy  double-rap  at  the  door  denoted  that 
George  Withers  had  arrived.  The  school- 
fellows advanced  with  delight  to  accost  each 
other,  but  in  the  act  of  shaking  hands  mutually 


gave  a  start  of  astonishment.  Good  heaven! 
said  Nightingale  to  himself,  is  it  possible  that 
this  can  be  Withers?  and,  Good  heavens!  said 
Withers  to  himself,  is  it  possible  that  this  can 
be  Nightingale? — a  sympathy  of  ejaculation 
which  could  only  proceed  from  friendship  of 
such  a  long  standing.  Dinner  was  immediately 
announced,  and  Mrs.  Nightingale  was  destined 
to  be  amused  by  an  eager  recital  of  the.r 
mutual  "hairbreadth  'scapes"  at  their  ancient 
seminary.  "  Do  you  remember  Sam  Talbot?'' 
— "  To  be  sure  I  do.  What  is  become  of  him  ? ' 
— "He  married  a  planter's  daughter,  an;l 
settled  in  Tobago." — "Where's  Lawrence?' 
— "Which  of  them,  Charles  or  Robert?"— 
"  Robert  I  meant." — "  He  is  a  barrack-master 
at  Colchester." — "And  what's  become  of 
Charles  Enderby,  who  broke  his  leaping-pole, 
and  fell  into  Drayton's  ditch  in  Tothill  Fields? ' 
— "Oh,  he  has  purchased  half  a  million  of 
swampy  acres  in  the  back  settlements  of 
America!" — "Indeed!  well  he  always  had  a 
turn  that  way.  Do  you  remember  his  battle 
with  Frank  Parsons?  he  certainly  would  have 
scalped  him  if  he  had  not  worn  a  wig. "  Dis- 
course like  this  is  highly  entertaining  to  the 
parties  interested;  but  they  are  apt,  in  the 
hurry  of  colloquy,  to  keep  all  the  entertain- 
ment to  themselves.  Mrs.  Nightingale,  inde- 
pendently of  her  dislike  to  these  exclusive 
reminiscences,  found  serious  internal  fault  with 
the  Reverend  George  Withers'  style  of  eating. 
The  food  unquestionably  reached  his  mouth, 
but  somehow  it  never  got  there  as  it  should 
have  done.  His  four-pronged  silver  fork  lay 
idle  upon  the  table-cloth,  while  his  knife  was 
doing  all  the  duty  which  polite  custom  has 
thrown  upon  its  silver  associate,  passed  to  and 
fro  from  his  mouth  to  his  plate  with  fearful 
impetuosity.  "  I  have  one  chance  yet,"  sighed 
the  lady  to  herself;  "he  will  cut  his  own 
tongue  out  in  a  minute — I  plainly  perceive 
that  nothing  else  can  check  his  garrulity. "  Still 
the  conversation  ran  in  the  same  channel. — 
"Do  you  remember  this?"  and  "Do  you  remem- 
ber that?"  ushered  in  every  speech.  At  length 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Withers  asked  the  friend  of 
his  heart,  whether  he  remembered  how  he 
served  the  Italian  image-men?  Nightingale 
had  forgotten  it.  "Oh,  then  I  must  recall 
it  to  your  memory,"  said  the  divine.  "There 
was  a  party  of  us,  madam  (turning  to  the  lady 
of  the  mansion),  at  our  window,  when  in  came 
a  man  into  Dean's  yard  with  a  set  of  plaster 
images  upon  a  board,  balanced  upon  his  head. 
These  Italians  are  certainly  admirable  artists. 
Such  correct  grouping  of  figures,  such  har- 
mony! Let  me  see,  there  were  Socrates, 


SCHOOL  FRIENDSHIP. 


305 


Mendoza,  Necker,  Lord  Howe,  Milton,  a  gilt 
lion,  Count  Cagliostro,  Whitfa'eld,  and  a  green 
parrot,  all  cheek-by  -jowl  together.  The  man 
— oh,  you  must  remember  it,  Jack — walked 
under  the  window,  crying,  'Image,  image, 
Trho'll  buy  my  image  ?'  when  you — 0,  you 
must  recollect — threw  a  basin  of  water  upon 
his  board.  Away  floated  Whitfield  and  the 
green  parrot:  Mendoza  gave  Milton  a  knock- 
down blow:  the  gilt  lion  fell  tooth  and  nail 
upon  Count  Cagliostro:  and  Necker  could  not 
find  ways  and  means  to  keep  his  place — 
Lord  Howe  was  the  only  officer  who  kept 
the  deck."  "Yes,  yes,  now  I  do  remember 
it,"  exclaimed  Colonel  Nightingale,  laughing 
heartily.  It  would  have  been  better  if  he  had 
remained  serious.  The  opening  of  his  fauces 
set  Mr.  Withers'  tongue  afloat  upon  a  very 
ticklish  topic.  "  Why,  Jack,"  exclaimed  the  re- 
lentless clergyman,  ' '  you  have  got  a  new  tooth. " 
The  colonel  reddened ;  but  the  ecclesiastic 
proceeded.  "Well,  that's  droll  enough;  you 
certainly  had  lost  a  tooth :  I  think  it  was  your 
left  eye-tooth." — "Do  you  retain  your  wise 
ones?"  inquired  the  caustic  colonel.  "  Yes,  both 
of  them,"  replied  the  matter-of-fact  divulger 
of  secrets.  "  You  must  remember  the  loss  of 
yours;  it  was  on  the  left  side:  Frank  Anderson 
knocked  it  out  with  a  cricket-ball."  There  are 
certain  secrets  which  men  keep  even  from  their 
wives.  For  "twice  ten  tedious  years"  the 
colonel  had  been  hugging  himself  in  the  cer- 
tainty that  the  affair  in  question  was  confined 
to  Chevalier  Ruspini  and  himself.  "  Will  you 
take  a  glass  of  champaign,  sir?"  said  the 
master  of  the  mansion.  The  movement  was 
most  dexterous.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Withers  had 
made  a  "god  of  his  belly"  too  long  to  allow 
the  thoughts  of  any  teeth,  save  his  own,  to 
cross  his  Bacchanalian  devotions. 

When  the  summons  of  "  Coffee  is  ready  " 
had  induced  the  two  school  friends  to  rejoin 
Mrs.  Nightingale  in  the  drawing-room,  all 
former  incidents  had  been  pretty  well  ex- 
hausted, and  they  now  proceeded  to  discuss 
"things  as  they  are."  But  in  this  species  of 
duet  they  by  no  means  chimed  harmoni- 
Dusly  together.  Withers  thought  Scoresby  and 
its  concerns  were  the  concerns  of  all  mankind; 
and  Nightingale  could  not  imagine  that  any- 
body upon  earth  had  anything  to  think  of 
save  Rossini  and  his  prima  donna  of  a  wife, 
Lindley's  violoncello,  Garcia  in  Atjorante,  and 
Catalani  in  II  Fanatico  per  la  Mmica.  "  I 
have  news  to  tell  you,"  said  the  country  parson 
to  the  frequenter  of  the  Italian  opera,  "which 
I  am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  hear." — "  In- 
deed, what  is  it?" — "  My  black  sow  has  pro- 

VOL.  i. 


duced  me  seven  of  as  pretty  pigs  as  ever  you 
saw  in  your  life.  Then  I've  another  thing  to 
tell  you:  I  enlarged  my  pig-sty  seven  feet 
fourinches:  fourinches?  I  really  think  it  was 
five :  yes,  it  certainly  was  five.  This  caused  the 
building  to  project  a  little,  and  but  a  little,  upon 
the  footpath  that  leads  the  back  way,  up  town 
from  the  Red  Lion  to  Mrs.  Marshall's  meadow. 
Well,  now,  what  do  you  think  Tom  Austin 
did?  He  told  Richard  Holloway  that  I  had 
been  guilty  of  a  trespass:  whereupon  Holloway, 
by  advice  of  Skinner  his  attorney,  pulled  down 
four  planks  of  the  new  part  of  the  pig-stye,  and 
let  the  whole  litter  out  into  the  village!  Little 
Johnny  Mears  caught  one  of  them — it  was  the 
black  and  white  one — and  Srnithers,  the  baker, 
contrived  to  get  hold  of  five  more  ;  but  I  have 
never  set  eyes  upon  the  seventh  from  that  day 
to  this!  The  poor  black  sow  took  on  sadly. 
Dick  Holloway  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself. 
He  is  a  fellow  of  very  loose  habits,  and  never 
sets  out  his  tithes  as  he  should  do.  But  what 
can  you  expect  from  a  Presbyterian?"  "  This 
bald  unjointed  chat"  made  Colonel  Nightingale 
fidget  up  and  down  like  the  right  elbow  of  Mr. 
Lindley  pending  the  agony  of  his  violoncello 
accompaniment  to  the  "  Batti  Batti"of  the 
now  forgotten  Mozart.  The  colonel  had 
hitherto  with  marvellous  patience,  from  com- 
plaisance to  his  guest,  foreborne  to  mount  his 
own  hobby:  finding,  however,  that  the  latter 
was  in  no  hurry  to  dismount,  he  resolved,  coute 
qul  coute,  to  vault  into  his  own  proper  saddle. 
The  following  dialogue  forthwith  ensued.  I 
copy  it  verbatim,  as  a  model  of  school  friend- 
ship standing  firm,  in  its  community  of  tastes, 
amid  the  wreck  of  thirty  years  and  upwards. 
"  I  am,  I  own,  extremely  partial  to  Rossini's 
Ricciardo  e  Zoraule:  Garcia  in  Ayorante  ex- 
cels himself:  the  critics  object  to  his  excess  of 
ornament;  but  I  own  this  has  always  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  his  chief  merit." — "  When 
the  black  sow  litters  again,  I  shall  keep  a  sharp 
look-out  upon  Master  Holloway  ;  and  if  he  pulls 
down  any  more  planks  from  my  pig-sty  I 
mean  to  put  him  into  the  Spiritual  Court." — 
"  Catalani's  spiritual  concerts  are  not  particu- 
larly well  attended,  and  I  am  not  sorry  for  it: 
Bochsa  has  started  his  oratorios  with  all  the 
talent  in  town,  and  therefore  ought  to  be  en- 
couraged. By-the-by,  Madame  Vestris  is  a 
woman  of  most  versatile  talent.  Her  mock 
Don  Giovanni  is  admirable :  not  that  I  approve 
of  any  mockery  of  the  Italian  Opera:  profane- 
ness  cannot  be  too  steadily  discouraged.  But 
it  is  not  a  little  surprising,  that  a  woman  who 
can  act  that  sprightly  comic  extravaganza 
should  be  able  to  depict  the  jealous  and  indig- 
20 


306 


THE  OCEAN  GRAVE. 


nant  Princess  Zomira. " — "  We  have  a  club  of 
clergymen  who  meet  once  a  month  at  Kettering 
to  shake  hands  and  exchange  sermons:  last 
Friday  month  I  gave  one  of  mine  to  Doctor 
Pringle,  whose  grandfather  was  chaplain  to  the 
English  factory  at  Lisbon,  and  received  one  of 
his  in  exchange.  I  intended  to  look  it  over  on 
Sunday  morning  before  church,  but  " — "  How 
extremely  well  Madame  Vestris,  Camporese, 
and  Garcia,  execute  that  trio  in  the  first  act, 
'Sara  Talma  delusa  schernita :' when  Madame 
Vestris  comes  in  with  her  '  0  1'indegno  qui 
dove  perir,'  I  declare  she  stands  her  ground 
most  womanfully:  the  fact  is,  that  the  sweet- 
ness of  Italian  music  " — "  But  Hannah  and  I 
were  busy  hunting  the  black  sow  out  of  the 
cucumber  beds:  we  were  so  busy,  crying,  'Hey 
tig!  tig!'  that  we  did  not  hear  the  bell  toll:  so 
up  I  walked  into  the  pulpit  without  ever  once 
looking  at  the  sermon  " —  "Those  orange-tawny 
stuff'  curtains  are  a  disgrace  to  the  Opera 
house  " — "  well  1  began  reading  it,  and  to  my 
great  surprise  I  found  that  it  had  been  preached 
by  Doctor  Pringle's  grandfather  immediately 
after  the  great  earthquake  at  Lisbon.  I  therefore 
found  myself  under  the  disagreeable  necessity 
of  thus  addressing  my  congregation  at  Ketter- 
ing:— '  When  I  look  around  me,  and  behold  the 
effects  of  the  late  horrid  devastation  of  nature : 
trees  torn  up  by  the  roots ;  houses  toppling 
to  their  foundation  ;  men  and  cattle  ingulfed 
in  the  earth,  and  the  whole  horizon  rocking 
like  the  ocean  in  its  most  tempestuous  moments. ' 
You  cannot  imagine  the  sensation  I  excited: 
the  women  fanned  themselves  and  fainted ; 
and  the  men  muttered  to  each  other,  '  Dear  me ! 
something  unpleasant  must  have  occurred  since 
we  entered  the  church!' — I  never  preached  with 
so  much  effect  either  before  or  since." 

The  regular  amble  of  the  Rev.  George 
Withers'  hobby  had  now  contrived  to  distance 
the  curvature  and  prance  of  Colonel  Nightin- 
gale's. Thecolonel  pulled  up,  andliftinga  small 
gold  watch  from  his  right  waistcoat  pocket, 
muttered  to  himself — "Ah,  the  wretch!  it  is 
half-past  ten,  and  Catalan!  must  have  sung 
her  second  Cavatina. — Where  do  you  lodge, 
Sir?"  said  the  host,  coldly  to  his  guest — "At 
the  New  Hummums. " — "Indeed!  are  you 
aware  that  they  close  their  doors  at  a  quarter 
past  eleven?" — "You  don't  say  so?" — "Yes, 
I  do:  but  you  may  find  very  pretty  accommo- 
dation at  '  the  Finish :'  the  street  strollers  and 
market-gardeners  speak  of  it  in  high  terms. " 
This  hit  told:  the  Reverend  George  Withers 
looked  at  his  watch,  and  made  a  rapid  retreat. 
"  Well !"  cried  the  colonel  the  moment  the 
door  was  closed,  "so  much  for  school  friend- 


ship :  did  you  ever  see  such  a  vulgar  dog — such 
an  idiot  too — so  blind  to  his  own  interest:  if 
he  had  but  held  his  tongue  two  minutes,  I 
could  have  given  him  my  opinion  of  '  Rossini's 
Zelmira. '  I  am  one  Opera  night  out  of  pocket 
by  him,  and  that  is  enough  to  make  me  detest 
him  to  my  dying  day.  Such  illiberality  too — 
did  you  hear  him  say, — '  What  can  you  expect 
from  a  Presbyterian!' — How  I  hate  a  man  who 
vilifies  a  whole  tribe  for  the  faults  of  an  indi- 
vidual!— I  have  long  thought  it,  and  I  now 
know  it — All  men  who  live  in  the  country  are 
fools." 

JAMES  SMITH. 


THE  OCEAN  GRAVE. 

[Mrs.  John  Hunter  (Anne  Home),  born  in  Hnll, 
1742 ;  died  in  London,  7th  January,  1821.  She  was  the 
wife  of  the  celebrated  anatomist,  and  the  authoress  of 
several  songs  which  have  been  popular.  Of  the.-e,  M/i 
Motlier  Bids  me  Bind  my  Hair,  is  perhaps  the  best 
known.  A  collection  of  her  poems  appeared  in  1802.] 

Friends !  when  I  die,  prepare  my  welcome  grave, 
Where  the  eternal  ocean  rolls  his  wave ; 
Rough  though  the  blast,  still  let  his  freeborn  breeze. 
Which  freshness  wafts  to  earth  from  endless  seas, 
Sigh  o'er  my  sleep,  and  let  his  glancing  spray 
Weep  tear-drops  sparkling  with  a  heavenly  ray, 
A  constant  mourner  then  shall  watch  my  tomb, 

And  nature  deepen  while  it  soothes  the  gloom. 

« 

O  let  that  element  whose  voice  had  power 
To  cheer  my  darkest,  soothe  my  loneliest  hour. 
Which  through  my  life  my  spirit  loved  so  well, 
Still  o'er  my  grave  its  tale  of  glory  tell. 

The  geii'rons  ocean,  whose  protid  waters  bear 
The  spoil  and  .produce  they  disdain  to  wear, 
Whose  wave  claims  kindred  with  the  azure  sky 
From  whom  reflected  stars  beam  gloriously ; 
Emblem  of  God  !  unchanging,  infinite, 
Awful  alike  in  loveliness  and  might, 
Rolls  still  untiring  like  the  tide  of  time, 
Binds  man  to  man,  and  mingles  clime  with  clime: 
And  as  the  sun,  which  from  each  lake  and  sti&im 
Through  all  the  world,  where'er  their  waters  gleam, 
Collects  the  cloud  his  heavenly  ray  conceals. 
And  slakes  the  thirst  which  all  creation  feels, 
So  ocean  gathers  tribute  from  each  shore, 
To  bid  each  climate  know  its  want  no  more. 

Exiled  on  earth,  a  fettered  prisoner  here, 

Barr'd  from  all  treasures  which  my  heart  holds  deor, 

The  kindred  soul,  the  fame  my  youth  desired. 

Whilst  hope  hath  fled  which  once  each  vision  fired : 

Dead  to  all  joy,  still  on  my  fancy  glow 

Dreamsof  delight  which  heavenward  thoughts  bestow. 

Not  then  in  death  shall  I  unconscious  be 

Of  that  whose  whispers  are  eternity. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAF. 


307 


THE   FALL  OF  THE  LEAF. 

There  is  no  vice  that  causes  more  calamities 
in  human  life,  than  the  intemperate  passion 
for  gaming.  How  many  noble  and  ingenuous 
persons  it  hath  reduced  from  wealth  unto 
poverty;  nay,  from  honesty  to  dishonour,  and 
by  still  descending  steps  into  the  gulf  of  per- 
dition. And  yet  how  prevalent  it  is  in  all 
capital  cities,  where  many  of  the  chiefest  mer- 
chants, and  courtiers  especially,  are  mere  pitiful 
slaves  of  fortune,  toiling  like  so  many  abject 
turnspits  in  her  ignoble  wheel.  Such  a  man  is 
worse  off  than  a  poor  borrower,  for  all  he  has  is 
at  the  momentary  call  of  imperative  chance ;  or 
rather  he  is  more  wretched  than  a  very  beggar, 
being  mocked  with  an  appearance  of  wealth, 
but  as  deceitful  as  if  it  turned,  like  the  moneys 
in  the  old  Arabian  story,  into  decaying  leaves. 

In  our  parent  city  of  Rome,  to  aggravate  her 
modern  disgraces,  this  pestilent  vice  has  lately 
fixed  her  abode,  and  has  inflicted  many  deep 
wounds  on  the  fame  and  fortunes  of  her  proudest 
families.  A  number  of  noble  youths  have  been 
sucked  into  the  ruinous  vortex,  some  of  them 
being  degraded  at  last  into  humble  retainers 
upon  rich  men,  but  the  most  part  perishing  by 
an  unnatural  catastrophe;  and  if  the  same  fate 
did  not  befall  the  young  Marquis  de  Malaspini, 
it  was  only  by  favour  of  a  circumstance  which 
is  not  likely  to  happen  a  second  time  for  any 
gamester. 

This  gentleman  came  into  a  handsome  re- 
venue at  the  death  of  his  parents,  whereupon, 
to  dissipate  his  regrets,  he  travelled  abroad, 
and  his  graceful  manners  procured  him  a  dis- 
tinguished reception  at  several  courts.  After 
two  years  spent  in  this  manner,  he  returned  to 
Rome,  where  he  had  a  magnificent  palace  on 
the  banks  of  the  Tiber,  and  which  he  further 
enriched  with  some  valuable  paintings  and 
sculptures  from  abroad.  His  taste  in  these 
works  was  much  admired;  and  his  friends 
remarked  with  still  greater  satisfaction,  that 
he  was  untainted  by  the  courtly  vices  which 
he  must  have  witnessed  in  his  travels.  It 
only  remained  to  complete  their  wishes,  that 
he  should  form  a  matrimonial  alliance  that 
should  be  worthy  of  himself,  and  he  seemed 
likely  to  fulfil  this  hope  in  attaching  himself  to 
the  beautiful  Countess  of  Maraviglia.  She  was 
herself  the  heiress  of  an  ancient  and  honour- 
able house ;  so  that  the  match  was  regarded 
with  satisfaction  by  the  relations  on  both  sides, 
and  especially  as  the  young  pair  were  most 
tenderly  in  love  with  each  other. 


For  certain  reasons,  however,  the  nuptials 
were  deferred  for  a  time,  thus  affording  leisure 
for  the  crafty  machinations  of  the  devil,  who 
delights,  above  all  things,  to  cross  a  virtuous 
and  happy  marriage.  Accordingly,  he  did  not 
fail  to  make  use  of  this  judicious  opportunity, 
but  chose  for  his  instrument  the  lady's  own 
brother,  a  very  profligate  ynd  a  gamester,  who 
soon  fastened,  like  an  evil  genius,  on  the  un- 
lucky Malaspini. 

It  was  a  dismal  shock  to  the  lady  when  she 
learned  the  nature  of  this  connection,  which 
Malaspini  himself  discovered  to  her,  by  in- 
cautiously dropping  a  die  from  his  pocket  in 
her  presence.  She  immediately  endeavoured, 
with  all  her  influence,  to  reclaim  him  from  the 
dreadful  passion  for  play,  which  had  now  crept 
over  him  like  a  moral  cancer,  and  already  dis- 
puted the  sovereignty  of  love;  neither  was  it 
without  some  dreadful  struggles  of  remorse  on 
his  own  part,  and  some  useless  victories,  that 
he  at  last  gave  himself  up  to  such  desperate 
habits,  but  the  power  of  his  Mcphistophiles 
prevailed,  and  the  visits  of  Malaspini  to  the 
lady  of  his  affections  became  still  less  frequent; 
he  repairing  instead  to  those  nightly  resorts 
where  the  greater  portion  of  his  estates  was 
already  forfeited. 

At  length,  when  the  lady  had  not  seen  him 
for  some  days,  and  in  the  very  last  week  before 
that  which  had  been  appointed  for  her  mar- 
riage, she  received  a  desperate  letter  from 
Malaspini,  declaring  that  he  was  a  ruined 
man,  in  fortune  and  hope;  and  that,  at  the 
cost  of  his  life  even,  he  must  renounce  her 
hand  for  ever.  He  added,  that  if  his  pride 
would  let  him  even  propose  himself,  a  beggar 
as  he  was,  for  her  acceptanf';,  he  should  yet 
despair  too  much  of  her  pardon  to  make  such 
an  offer;  whereas,  if  he  could  have  read  in  the 
heart  of  the  unhappy  lady,  he  would  have  seen 
that  she  still  preferred  the  beggar  Malaspini 
to  the  richest  nobleman  in  the  Popedom.  With 
abundance  of  tears  and  sighs  perusing  his 
letter,  her  first  impulse  was  to  assure  him  of 
that  loving  truth;  and  to  offer  herself  with  her 
estates  to  him,  in  compensation  of  the  spites  of 
fortune:  but  the  wretched  Malaspini  had  with- 
drawn himself  no  one  knew  whither,  and  she 
was  constrained  to  content  herself  with  griev- 
ing over  his  misfortunes,  and  purchasing  such 
parts  of  his  property  as  were  exposed  to  sale  by 
his  plunderers.  And  now  it  became  apparent 
what  a  villanous  part  his  betrayer  had  taken; 
for,  having  thus  stripped  the  unfortunate  gen- 
tleman, he  now  aimed  to  rob  him  of  his  life 
also,  that  his  treacheries  might  remain  un- 
discovered. To  this  end  he  feigned  a  meet 


303 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAF. 


vehement  indignation  at  Malaspini's  neglect 
and  bad  faith,  as  he  termed  it,  towards  his 
sister;  protesting  that  it  was  an  insult  to  be 
only  washed  out  with  his  blood,  and  with  these 
expressions  he  sought  to  kill  him  at  any  ad- 
vantage. And  no  doubt  he  would  have  become 
a  murderer,  as  well  as  a  dishonest  gamester,  if 
Malaspini's  shame  and  anguish  had  not  drawn 
him  out  of  the  way;  for  he  had  hired  a  mean 
lodging  in  the  suburbs,  from  which  he  never 
issued  but  at  dusk,  and  then  only  to  wander  in 
the  most  unfrequented  places. 

It  was  now  in  the  wane  of  autumn,  when 
some  of  the  days  are  fine,  and  gorgeously  deco- 
rated at  morn  and  eve  by  the  rich  sun's  embroid- 
eries ;  but  others  are  dewy  and  dull,  with  cold 
nipping  winds,  inspiring  comfortless  fancies 
and  thoughts  of  melancholy  in  every  bosom. 
In  such  a  dreary  hour  Malaspini  happened  to 
walk  abroad,  and  avoiding  his  own  squandered 
estates,  which  it  was  not  easy  to  do  by  reason 
of  their  extent,  he  wandered  into  a  by-place 
in  the  neighbourhood.  The  place  was  very 
lonely  and  desolate,  and  without  any  near  habi- 
tation; its  main  feature  especially  being  a  large 
tree,  now  stripped  bare  of  its  vernal  honours, 
excepting  one  dry  yellow  leaf,  which  was  shak- 
ing on  a  topmost  bough  to  the  cold  evening 
wind,  and  threatening  at  every  moment  to  fall 
to  the  damp,  dewy  earth.  Before  this  dreary 
object  Malaspini  stopped  sometime  in  contem- 
plation, commenting  to  himself  on  the  desolate 
tree,  and  drawing  many  apt  comparisons  be- 
tween its  nakedness  and  his  own  beggarly 
condition. 

"Alas!  poor  bankrupt,"  says  he,  "thou  hast 
been  plucked  too,  like  me;  but  yet  not  so 
basely.  Thou  hast  but  showered  thy  green 
leaves  on  the  grateful  earth,  which  in  another 
season  will  repay  thee  with  sap  and  sustenance ; 
but  those  whom  I  have  fattened  will  not  so 
much  as  lend  again  to  my  living.  Thou  wilt 
thus  regain  all  thy  green  summer  wealth,  which 
I  shall  never  do ;  and  besides,  thou  art  still 
better  off  than  I  am,  with  that  one  golden  leaf 
to  cheer  thee,  whereas  I  have  been  stripped 
even  of  my  last  ducat ! " 

With  these  and  many  more  similar  fancies 
he  continued  to  aggrieve  himself,  till  at  last, 
being  more  sad  than  usual,  his  thoughts  tended 
unto  death,  and  he  resolved,  still  watching  that 
yellow  leaf,  to  take  its  flight  as  the  signal  for 
his  own  departure. 

"Chance,"  said  he,  "hath  been  my  temporal 
ruin,  and  so  let  it  now  determine  for  me,  in 
my  last  cast  between  life  and  death,  which  is 
BOW  all  that  its  malice  hath  left  me." 

Thus  in  his  extremity  he  still  risked  some- 


what upon  fortune;  and  very  shortly  the  leaf 
being  torn  away  by  a  sudden  blast,  it  made 
two  or  three  flutterings  to  and  fro,  and  at  last 
settled  on  the  earth,  at  about  a  hundred  paces 
from  the  tree.  Malaspini  interpreted  this  as 
an  omen  that  he  ought  to  die;  and  following 
the  leaf  till  it  alighted,  he  fell  to  work  on  the 
same  spot  with  his  sword,  intending  to  scoop 
himself  a  sort  of  rude  hollow  for  a  grave.  He 
found  a  strange  gloomy  pleasure  in  this  fanci- 
ful design,  that  made  him  labour  very  earnestly : 
and  the  soil  besides  being  loose  and  sandy,  he 
had  soon  cleared  away  about  a  foot  below  the 
surface.  The  earth  then  became  suddenly 
more  obstinate,  and  trying  it  here  and  there 
with  his  sword,  it  struck  against  some  very 
hard  substance;  whereupon,  digging  a  little 
further  down,  he  discovered  a  considerable 
treasure. 

There  were  coins  of  various  nations,  but  all 
golden,  in  this  petty  mine;  and  in  such  quan- 
titjr  as  made  Malaspini  doubt,  for  a  moment, 
if  it  were  not  the  mere  mintage  of  his  fancy. 
Assuring  himself,  however,  that  it  was  no 
dream,  he  gave  many  thanks  to  God  for  this 
timely  providence;  notwithstanding,  he  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment  to  deliberate  whether  it 
was  honest  to  avail  himself  of  the  money;  but 
believing,  as  was  most  probable,  that  it  was 
the  plunder  of  some  banditti,  he  was  reconciled 
to  the  appropriation  of  it  to  his  own  necessi- 
ties. 

Loading  himself,  therefore,  with  as  much 
gold  as  he  could  conveniently  carry,  he  hasten- 
ed with  it  to  his  humble  quarters;  and  by 
making  two  or  three  more  trips  in  the  course 
of  the  night  he  made  himself  master  of  the 
whole  treasure.  It  was  sufficient,  on  being 
reckoned,  to  maintain  him  in  comfort  for  the 
rest  of  his  life;  but  not  being  able  to  enjoy  it 
in  the  scene  of  his  humiliations,  he  resolved  to 
reside  abroad;  and  embarking  in  an  English 
vessel  at  Naples,  he  was  carried  over  safely  to 
London. 

It  is  held  a  deep  disgrace  amongst  our 
Italian  nobility  for  a  gentleman  to  meddle 
with  either  trade  or  commerce;  and  yet,  as  we 
behold,  they  will  condescend  to  retail  their 
own  produce,  and  wine  especially, — yea,  marry, 
and  with  an  empty  barrel,  like  any  vintner's 
sign,  hung  out  at  their  stately  palaces.  Malas- 
pini perhaps  disdained  from  the  first  these 
illiberal  prejudices;  or  else  he  was  taught  to 
renounce  them  by  the  example  of  the  London 
merchants,  whom  he  saw  in  that  great  mart  of 
the  world,  engrossing  the  universal  seas,  and 
enjoying  the  power  and  importance  of  princes, 
merely  from  the  fruits  of  their  traffic.  At  any 


VERSES. 


309 


rate,  he  embarked  what  money  he  possessed  in 
various  mercantile  adventures,  which  ended  so 
profitably,  that  in  three  years  he  had  regained 
almost  as  large  a  fortune  as  he  had  formerly 
inherited.  He  then  speedily  returned  to  his 
native  country,  and  redeeming  his  paternal 
estates,  he  was  soon  in  a  worthy  condition  to 
present  himself  to  his  beloved  countess,  who 
was  still  single,  and  cherished  him  with  all  a 
woman's  devotedness  in  her  constant  affection. 
They  were,  therefore,  before  long  united,  to 
the  contentment  of  all  Rome;  her  wicked  re- 
lation having  been  slain  some  time  before,  in 
a  brawl  with  his  associates. 

As  for  the  fortunate  windfall  which  had  so 
befriended  him,  Malaspini  founded  with  it  a 
noble  hospital  for  orphans;  and  for  this  reason, 
that  it  belonged  formerly  to  some  fatherless 
children,  from  whom  it  had  been  withheld  by 
their  unnatural  guardian.  This  wicked  man 
it  was  who  had  buried  the  money  in  the  sand: 
but  when  he  found  that  his  treasure  was  stolen, 
he  went  and  hanged  himself  on  the  very  tree 
that  had  caused  its  discovery. 

THOMAS  HOOD.' 


FIDELITY. 

FROM   THE   SPANISH. 

One  eve  of  beauty,  when  the  sun 

Was  on  the  streams  of  Guadalquiver, 
To  gold  converting,  one  by  one, 

The  ripples  of  the  mighty  river; 
Beside  me  on  the  bank  was  seated 

A  Seville  girl  with  auburn  hair, 
And  eyes  that  might  the  world  have  cheated, 

A  wild,  bright,  wicked,  diamond  pair ! 

She  stooped,  and  wrote  upon  the  sand, 

Just  as  the  loving  sun  was  going, 
With  such  a  soft,  small,  shining  hand, 

I  could  have  sworn  'twas  silver  flowing. 
Her  words  were  three,  and  not  one  more 

What  could  Diana's  motto  be? 
The  Syren  wrote  upon  the  shore  — 

"Death,  not  inconstancy!" 

And  then  her  two  large  languid  eyes 

So  turned  on  mine.  that,  devil  take  me, 
I  set  the  air  on  fire  with  sighs, 

And  was  the  fool  she  chose  to  make  me. 
Saint  Francis  would  have  been  deceived 

With  such  an  eye  and  such  a  hand: 
But  one  week  more,  and  I  believed 

As  much  the  woman  as  the  sand. 


l  National  Tales,  London,  1827,  2  vols.  8vo. 


VERSES. 

[Andrew  Marvell,  born  at  Kingston-upon-Hull,  mh 
November,  1620;  died  liitli  August,  1078.  He  was  a 
politician  and  a  poet,  the  friend  of  Milton,  and  the 
steady  opponent  of  the  court  party  in  parliament.  il« 
was  elected  one  of  the  members  for  Hull  in  1660,  and 
continued  to  represent  that  city  in  parliament  till  his 
death.  Charles  II.  is  reported  to  have  attempted  to 
bribe  him  and  failed,  although  Marvell' g  circumstances 
were  comparatively  poor.  No  temptation  could  move 
him  from  the  principles  he  held,  and  his  prose  works, 
satirical  and  political,  exercised  much  influence  on  the 
government  of  the  day.  His  miscellaneous  poems,  with 
portrait  and  memoir,  were  published  in  1681,  and  there 
have  been  various  editions  issued  since.] 

Why  should  man's  high  aspiring  mind 

Burn  in  him,  with  so  proud  a  breath; 
When  all  his  haughty  views  can  find 

In  this  world,  yields  to  death  ; 
The  fair,  the  brave,  the  vain,  the  wise, 

The  rich,  the  poor,  and  great,  and  small, 
Are  each  but  worms'  anatomies, 

To  strew  his  quiet  hall. 

Power  may  make  many  earthly  gods, 

Where  gold,  and  bribery's  guilt,  prevails; 
But  death's  unwelcome  honest  odds 

Kicks  o'er  the  unequal  scales : 
The  flatter'd  great  may  clamours  raise 

Of  power, — and  their  own  weakness  hide. 
But  death  shall  find  unlooked-for  ways 

To  end  the  farce  of  pride. — 

An  arrow,  hurtel'd  ere  so  high 

From  e'en  a  giant's  sinewy  strength, 
In  time's  un traced  eternity, 

Goes  but  a  pigmy  length — 
Nav,  whirling  from  the  tortured  string, 

With  all  its  pomp  of  hurried  flight, 
'Tis,  by  the  skylark's  little  wing, 

Outmeasured,  in  its  height. 

Just  so,  man's  boasted  strength  and  power 

Shall  fade,  before  death's  lightest  stroke; 
Laid  lower  than  the  meanest  flower — 

Whose  pride  o'ertopt  the  oak. 
And  he,  who  like  a  blighting  blast, 

Dispeopled  worlds,  with  war's  alarms, 
Shall  be  himself  destroyed  at  last, 

By  poor,  despised  worms. 

Tyrants  in  vain  their  powers  secure, 

And  awe  slaves'  murmurs  with  a  frov:n  j 
But  unawed  death  at  last  is  sure 

To  sap  the  Babels  down — 
A  stone  thrown  upward  to  the  sky, 

Will  quickly  meet  the  ground  agen : 
So  men-gods,  of  enrth's  vanity, 

Shall  drop  at  last  to  men; 


310 


MADAME  SIMPLE'S  INVESTMENT. 


And  power,  and  pomp,  their  all  resign — 

Blood-purchased  thrones,  and  banquet  halls, 
Fate  waits  to  sack  ambition's  shrine 

As  bare  as  prison  walls, 
Where  the  poor  suffering  wretch  bows  down 

To  laws  a  lawless  power  hath  past ; — 
And  pride,  and  power,  and  king,  and  clown, 

Shall  be  death's  slaves  at  last. 

Time,  the  prime  minister  of  death, 

There's  nought  can  bribe  his  honest  will; 
He  stops  the  richest  tyrant's  breath, 

And  lays  his  mischief  still : 
Each  wicked  scheme  for  power,  all  stops, 

With  grandeur's  false  and  mock  display, 
As  eve's  shades,  from  high  mountain  tops, 

Fade  with  the  rest  away. 

Death  levels  all  things  in  his  march, 

Nought  can  resist  his  mighty  strength; 
The  palace  proud, — triumphal  arch, 

Shall  mete  their  shadows'  length : 
The  rich,  the  poor,  one  common  bed 

Shall  find,  in  the  unhonoured  grave, 
Where  weeds  shall  crown  alike  the  head 

Of  tyrant  and  of  slave.     . 


MADAME  SIMPLE'S   INVESTMENT. 

I. 

In  186 —  there  were  at  Paris,  as  well  as 
in  the  departments,  a  hundred  lotteries  for 
charitable  purposes. 

Monsieur  and  Madame  Simple,  retired  her- 
balists, enjoyed,  on  a  third  floor  in  the  Rue 
Chalot,  about  three  thousand  francs  a  year,  of 
which  they  scarcely  spent  two-thirds.  They 
arose  at  nine,  breakfasted,  went  to  the  Jardin 
des  Plantes  to  look  at  the  bears,  the  monkeys, 
and  the  two  elephants;  returned  to  dinner  at 
five,  played  a  game  at  piquet,  and  went  to  bed 
when  the  drums  beat  the  retreat.  How  was  it 
possible  for  them  to  spend  more? 

On  Sundays  they  passed  the  day  at  Belle- 
ville, where  they  had  hired  a  square  patch  of 
garden,  in  the  middle  of  which  rose  a  sort  of 
cabin,  christened  with  the  title  of  "country 
house."  Their  friends  and  messmates  con- 
sisted of  a  pug-dog  named  Pyrame,  who  was 
Madame's  spoiled  child;  a  cat  called  Minette, 
especially  petted  by  Monsieur;  and  a  family 
of  turtle-doves,  a  source  to  both  of  the  most 
delightful  recollections,  particularly  when  the 
cock  entertained  the  hen  with  his  intermin- 
able series  of  salutations.  In  short,  their  life 
to  them  was  a  succession  of  cloudless  days, 
varied  every  year  with  one  or  two  important 


events,  such  as  the  happy  hatching  of  a  pair 
of  little  turtles,  or  the  imprudent  propensity 
which  Minette  manifested  to  hunt  after  noctur- 
nal adventures  in  early  spring.  The  Simples, 
therefore,  were  as  happy  as  it  was  possible  for 
people  to  be,  when  Madame  took  it  into  her 
head  to  lay  out  the  joint  savings  of  her  husband 
and  herself  in  the  purchase  of  a  ticket  in  each 
lottery.  Madame  Simple,  who  was  now  and 
then  tickled  by  dreams  of  luxury  and  grandeur, 
was  not  sorry  to  sow  the  seed  of  emotions  in 
the  somewhat  too  uniform  furrow  of  her  ex- 
istence. 

Madame  Simple's  hopes  were  not  disappoint- 
ed. Her  husband  announced  to  her  thLty- 
three  times  that  they  had  won  the  principal 
prize  in  each  lottery,  thereby  affording  her 
thirty-three  different  emotions,  which  varied 
according  to  the  importance  of  the  sum,  from 
trembling  to  convulsion,  from  exclamation  to 
fainting.  The  result  of  the  whole  was,  that 
the  good  works  of  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Simple  brought  them  in  the  trifle  of  one 
million  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs. 

II. 

The  clock  struck  nine.  M.  Simple  sat  up 
in  his  bed  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"Wake  up,  Goody!" 

"  I  am  not  asleep,"  replied  Madame  Simple 
with  importance;  "I  am  reflecting." 

"  Let  us  make  haste  and  dress.  We  shall 
be  too  late  to  see  the  monkeys  let  out. " 

"You  well  deserve  the  name  which  you 
have  given  me,  Monsieur  Simple !  When 
people  have  sixty  thousand  francs  a  year,  they 
do  not  amuse  themselves  with  such  nonsense 
as  monkeys.  We  will  go  shopping  this  morn- 
ing along  the  Boulevards,  as  far  as  the 
Madelaine.  I  must  have  a  thousand  francs' 
worth  of  lace." 

"  To  open  a  shop  with,  Goody  dear?" 

"  To  trim  a  satin  mantelet,  Monsieur 
Simple. " 

"  That  will  indeed  be  a  fine  mantelet  then." 

"  I  mean  we  should  have  plenty  of  other 
smart  things  too.  Do  you  fancy  we  are  to  live 
any  longer  in  this  stupid,  humdrum  way,  in  a 
sort  of  public  barrack,  where  twenty  lodgers 
elbow  each  other  on  the  staircase?" 

"  Nobody  has  ever  elbowed  me." 

"  But  that  might  happen.  In  short,  I  have 
long  and  maturely  meditated  upon  our  new 
position,  as  well  as  on  the  changes  which  it 
ought  to  cause  in  our  existence.  My  plans 
are  arranged." 

"  But,  Goody  — 

"  i  must  remark,  once  for  all,  Monsieur, 


MADAME  SIMPLE'S  INVESTMENT. 


311 


that  there  is  nothing  so  vulgar  as  for  married 
people  to  call  each  other  Goody,  Totsy,  duck, 
or  — 

•'  By  Jove!  I  do  it  out  of  affection." 

"  But  when  people  have  sixty  thousand 
francs  a  year,  they  show  their  affection  in  a 
more  genteel  form  of  words. " 

"  Very  likely,  my  honey ;  but  habits  to 
which  one  has  been  accustomed  for  thirty 
years  are  not  shaken  off  in  half  an  hour. " 

"  Certainly,  you  will  not  do  it  in  a  hurry,  if 
you  are  as  long  about  it  as  you  are  in  dressing. " 

"  I  am  ready  now,  darling  duck." 

"  Make  haste  and  get  your  breakfast.  I 
want  to  be  off." 

Madame  Simple  was  an  extremely  expedi- 
tious person.  Her  plan  was  no  sooner  con- 
ceived than  executed;  and  the  happy  couple 
were  soon  installed,  as  if  by  enchantment,  in 
a  grand  hotel  in  the  Chaussee  d'Autin.  Four 
servants,  in  splendid  liveries,  loitered  about 
the  door;  a  caleclie  and  a  coupe  stood  in  the 
coach-house;  and  four  magnificent  horses  . 
pawed  the  floor  of  the  stable.  M.  Simple  I 
regarded  all  these  fine  things  with  an  air  of 
complete  astonishment.  He  wandered  from 
room  to  room,  walked  on  the  tips  of  his  toes, 
as  if  he  had  been  in  a  sick  man's  chamber. 
He  wiped  off  with  his  sleeve  any  dust  of  snuff 
which  he  might  happen  to  let  fall  upon  the 
furniture;  and  his  wife  had  the  greatest  pos- 
sible difficulty  in  making  him  understand  that 
he  need  not  take  off  his  hat  when  he  spoke  to 
his  servants. 

III. 

M.  Simple  wished  to  get  up.  Following  the 
instructions  his  wife  had  given  him,  he  pulled 
a  bell-rope  which  hung  at  his  bed's  head.  At 
the  end  of  five  minutes  he  repeated  the  opera- 
tion. After  another  five  minutes,  as  nobody 
came,  he  pulled  at  the  rope  for  the  third  time. 
At  last  Jacque,  the  valet -de-chambre,  showed  ! 
himself,  puffing  as  if  he  had  put  himself  out 
of  breath  by  coming  in  such  an  extraordinary  ' 
hurry;  so  that  M.  Simple,  instead  of  making 
any  remarks  about  his  negligence,  internally 
pitied  the  fate  of  poor  servants,  who  are  com- 
pelled to  throw  themselves  into  a  perspiration 
to  satisfy  the  impatient  demands  of  their  mas- 
ters. 

Jacque  took  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
collect  and  arrange  the  requisites  for  M.  Sim- 
ple's toilet.  He  employed  a  second  in  shaving 
him  and  brushing  his  hair,  a  third  in  pulling 
on  his  boots,  a  fourth  in  tying  his  cravat,  and 
a  fifth  in  assisting  him  •with  his  waistcoat  and 
coat.  M.  Simple  had  the  pleasure  of  spending 


an  hour  and  a  half  in  an  operation  which  for- 
merly took  him  only  twenty  minutes  to  com- 
plete. But,  in  recompense  for  that,  his  pan- 
taloons girded  him  so  tightly  that  he  could 
scarcely  breathe;  his  cravat  made  him  feel 
as  if  he  were  in  the  pillory ;  and  his  corns, 
imprisoned  in  tight -fitting  boots,  gave  him 
horrible  pain.  Nevertheless,  on  perceiving, 
unexpectedly,  his  own  image  reflected  in  a 
mirror,  he  had  the  self-command  to  subdue  all 
outward  indication  of  the  tortures  he  suffered, 
and  to  make  himself  a  respectful  bow,  believing 
the  figure  to  be  some  stranger  of  distinction 
who  had  come  to  visit  him. 

IV. 

Dinner-time  arrived,  and  M.  Simple  sat 
down  to  the  table. 

"  Dear,  dear!  what  can  this  be,  ducky?"  he 
said,  as  he  tasted  some  soup  which  was  per- 
fectly unknown  to  him  in  regard  to  colour, 
taste,  and  smell. 

"  It  is  cray -fish  soup,  delicately  seasoned." 

"Delicately  poisoned,  you  mean,  my  darling. 
Now  that  we  are  rich,  there  is  no  reason  why 
we  should  not  have  a  hotch-potch  every  day, 
with  a  chicken  in  it  too,  as  good  Henry  IV. 
used  to  say." 

"You  deserve  to  have  been  born  in  those 
primitive  times!  A  hotch-potch!  The  idea 
of  requiring  a  cook,  who  has  served  in  Milord 
Plumpudding's  kitchen,  to  make  a  hotch- 
potch!" 

"Ah!    Our  cook  has — " 

"People  who  have  a  cook  who  has  cooked 
for  Milord  Plumpudding  ought  not  to  dine 
like  everyday  folks. " 

"What  a  pity!  I  should  have  been  very 
well  satisfied  with  a  hotch-potch." 

At  the  second  course  M.  Simple  opened  his 
eyes  in  astonishment,  and  let  his  hands  fall 
upon  his  lap  in  complete  despair. 

"Take  something,  my  dear;  help  yourself 
to  something!"  said  Madame  Simple. 

"Quite  impossible,  Goody!  I  have  not  room 
for  a  morsel  more.  I  have  already  done 
honour  to  two  dishes." 

"  Our  ordinary  private  little  dinners  will 
consist  of  six.  We  cannot  have  less  now  that 
we  are  worth  —  " 

"Of  course;  six  be  the  number,  my  love, 
since  our  position  requires  it;  but  you  will 
allow  me  to  observe  that  there  is  no  compulsion 
to  eat  of  every  one  of  them. " 

"That  is  to  say,  you  would  cause  Milord 
Plumpudding's  cook  the  vexation  of  supposing 
that  his  ragouts  had  failed,  and  that  you  are 
dissatisfied  with  his  exertions!" 


312 


MADAME  SIMPLE'S  INVESTMENT. 


"Do  you  think  it  would  have  that  effect 
upon  Milord  Plumpudding's  cook?" 

"Only  put  yourself  in  his  place." 

"That  is  all  I  require,"  thought  M.  Simple. 
"  I  am  sure  he  does  not  feel  obliged  to  taste  of 
every  mess  he  makes." 

During  the  night  M.  Simple  was  exceedingly 
unwell.  "Whatever  my  wife  may  say,"  he 
muttered  to  himself,  "  hotch-potch  would  not 
have  disagreed  with  me  in  this  way." 


V. 


"  Dear!  did  you  observe  how  certain  persons 
smiled  yesterday  when  they  heard  our  name 
mentioned?" 

"  I  confess  I  paid  no  attention  to  them." 

"Even  our  very  servants, whenever  they  have 
to  pronounce  it,  find  it  difficult  to  keep  a  serious 
countenance." 

"Our  servants  are  —  ridiculous  servants 
then." 

" Xo,  'tis  our  name  that  is  ridiculous!" 

"My  father's  name!" 

"  Your  father  had  not  sixty  thousand  francs 
a  year." 

' '  He  was  an  honest  gardener,  glad  enough 
to  get  six  days'  journey-work  every  week,  at 
the  handsome  rate  of  three  francs  a  day." 

"  To  be  sure;  to  be  sure!  People  don't  talk 
of  those  things  except  when  they  are  alone, 
and  that  as  little  as  possible,  for  fear  of  con- 
tracting the  habit  of  doing  so.  I  said  at  the 
time  that  it  was  a  matter  of  necessity  for  us  to 
change  our  name." 

"  Renounce  my  father's  name!"  cried  M. 
Simple,  crimson  with  indignation. 

"  Pray,  who  asks  you  to  renounce  it?  Con- 
tinue Simple  as  long  as  you  like;  only  be  so 
in  more  fashionable  style.  Do  you  fancy,  for 
instance,  that  it  would  be  any  affront  to  your 
father's  memory  to  have  us  announced,  when 
we  enter  a  drawing-room,  as  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Simplencour?" 

"  I  should  have  no  objection,  my  darling 
duck ;  but  you  have  pitched  upon  quite  a 
grand  alteration.  If  you  had  had  the  modesty 
to  propose  Simplenbourg,  I  might  have  said 
something  to  it!" 

'•  Oh,  no!  That  sounds  Germanified.  I 
am  a  Frenchwoman.  France  for  ever!  I  stick 
to  Simplencour!" 

"And  I  to  Simplenbourg!" 

The  discussion  was  long,  and  ended  in  a 
compromise.  It  was  agreed  that  henceforth 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Simple  should  bear  the 
name  of  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Simplen- 
ville. 


VI. 

"By  Jove!"  said  M.  de  Simplenville  to 
himself  one  day,  "as  my  wife  is  gone  out 
alone  this  morning,  I  have  a  great  mind  to 
devote  a  couple  of  hours  to  my  friend  Coun- 
ardin.  The  dear  fellow  may  very  likely  think" 
that  I  scorn  his  acquaintance  now  that  I  am 
become  a  millionaire.  I  will  pay  him  a  visit, 
to  show  him  he  is  mistaken;  and  will  go  in 
my  carriage,  to  flatter  his  vanity.  I  remember 
that,  when  I  was  an  herbalist,  I  was  very 
proud  of  seeing  a  carriage  stop  at  my  door. 
Jacque!" 

"  Monsieur." 

"  Tell  Jean  I  want  the  carriage." 

"  Impossible,  Monsieur.  Madame  has  taken 
the  caleche,  and  it  is  Jean  who  drives  her." 

"  Then  tell  Pierre  to  let  me  have  the  coitpt 
in  half  an  hour." 

"Monsieur  forgets  that  Saidee  was  in  har- 
ness yesterday  and  caught  cold,  and  that  the 
veterinary  surgeon  forbid  her  going  out  for  a 
week. " 

"Oh!  then  I  will  make  my  call  on  foot." 

But,  while  proceeding  on  his  way,  M.  de 
Simplenville  discovered  that  certain  habits  are 
contracted  with  marvellous  facility;  and  that, 
in  point  of  fact,  to  do  without  a  carriage  is 
much  easier  for  the  man  who  has  no  such  con- 
veyance in  the  world,  than  for  him  who  believes 
he  has  two  at  his  service.  While  M.  de  Sim- 
plenville was  amusing  himself  with  this  dis- 
consolate reflection,  a  shower  of  mud  from  the 
wheels  of  a  passing  caleche  bespattered  him 
from  head  to  foot. 

"Stupid  ass!"  he  shouted,  with  upraised 
cane,  to  give  the  insolent  driver  a  good  drub- 
bing. But  he  refrained  from  striking.  He 
recognized  Jean  upon  the  box;  and  to  spoil  a 
livery  that  had  been  paid  for  out  of  his  own 
pocket, — M.  de  Simplenville  was  incapable  of 
such  an  action! 

"At  least,  Totsy,"  he  said  to  Madame  de 
Simplenville,  who  put  her  head  out  of  the 
carriage  -window,-^-  "at  least,  open  the  door 
and  give  me  a  lift  home." 

"Extremely  sorry,  my  dear,  to  be  obliged 
to  refuse." 

"  But  if  I  walk  through  the  streets  in  this 
state,  I  shall  soon  have  the  rabble  shouting 
after  me." 

"  But  you  do  not  mean,  I  suppose,  to  seat 
yourself  inside  a  caleche  lined  with  white  satin, 
in  such  a  condition  as  that!  Go,  my  dear,  and 
dry  yourself  in  the  sunshine." 

Jean  touched  his  horses  with  his  whip,  and 
the  carriage  was  off  at  full  speed.  M.  de  Sim- 


MADAME  SIMPLE'S  INVESTMENT. 


313 


plenville  contrived  to  get  taken  up  in  a  hack- 
ney cabriolet,  which  was  not  so  nice  about  its 
lining.  During  his  ride  he  had  plenty  of  time 
to  reflect  on  the  pleasure  of  having  a  carriage 
of  his  own. 

VII. 

Dinner  was  over.  M.  de  Simplenville  was 
delighted  to  be  once  more  alone  with  his  wife, 
as  in  old  times,  which  had  seldom  been  the 
case  since  he  came  to  his  fortune;  so  he  said  to 
her,  rubbing  his  hands,  "Suppose  we  have  a 
game  of  piquet,  darling  dear." 

"You  are  crazy,  my  dear;  this  is  opera- 
night!" 

"Again?" 

"  When  people  hire  a  quarter  of  a  box  by 
the  year,  and  pay  a  couple  of  thousand  francs 
for  it,  they  do  not  stop  at  home  to  play 
piquet." 

"  This,  for  instance,  is  one  chapter  of  our 
budget  which  I  should  have  great  pleasure  in 
striking  out  with  my  pen." 

"A  pretty  idea!" 

"Certainly;  because  I  don't  like  music." 

"And  am  I  particularly  fond  of  it,  Mon- 
sieur?" 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"But  I  pretend  to  be  fond  of  it.  It  is  one 
of  the  exigencies  of  our  position." 

M.  de  Simplenville  resigned  himself  to  his 
fate.  During  the  first  act  he  drummed  with 
his  fingers  upon  his  knees,  and  read  the  pro- 
gramme backwards.  At  the  second  act  his 
head  fell  gently  on  his  breast.  At  the  third 
he  snored  like  a  drummer  after  a  long  day's 
march. 

"Wake  up,  dear!"  exclaimed  his  wife,  tap- 
ping him  on  the  back.  "  This  is  the  second 
time  that  the  conductor  has  looked  at  us  and 
frowned." 

"  Tierce  to  the  king ! "  answered  M.  de 
Simplenville,  without  opening  his  eyes.  The 
unhappy  man  was  enjoying  in  imagination  the 
pleasure  which  he  was  forbidden  to  taste  in 
reality. 

VIII. 

One  day  Madame  de  Simplenville  said  to 
her  husband,  "  My  dear,  you  will  accompany 
me  this  morning." 

"To  go  and  see  the  monkeys?"  And  M. 
de  Simplenville's  countenance  brightened  at 
the  very  thought.  The  lady  regarded  him 
with  a  haughty  look,  which  said  as  plain  as 
possible,  "  Poor  dear  man!  He  has  sold  too 
many  simples  not  to  continue  simple  for  the 
rest  of  his  days!" 


"No,  dear!"  she  answered.  "No,  'tis  not 
the  monkeys  that  we  are  to  see.  I  am  going 
to  introduce  you  to-day  into  a  world  where 
you  ought  to  have  figured  long  ago." 

"  I  don't  know  what  world  you  are  talking 
about;  but  it  is  all  one  to  me,  if  it  is  an  amus- 
ing one." 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  amusement,  Mon- 
sieur, but  of  philanthropy." 

"  The  name  does  not  sound  very  entertain- 
ing!" 

"No  more  is  the  thing.  It  is  not  for  the 
sake  of  selfish  amusement  that  we  are  made 
the  depositaries  of  a  large  fortune,  but  to 
render  ourselves  useful  to  mankind  at  large. 
Now,  I  do  not  know  whether  it  has  ever  struck 
you  that  you  are  utterly  good  for  nothing  in  a 
philanthropic  sense,  and  of  no  earthly  service 
to  any  living  creature." 

"  I  confess  that  this  fact  had  completely 
escaped  my  observation." 

"  Well,  people  whose  authority  in  such  sub- 
jects is  incontestable  have  already  made  the 
discovery  for  you.  And  they  had  only  to 
indicate  the  circumstance  to  me  to  make  me 
resolve  immediately  that  your  nullity  and  in- 
significance should  forthwith  cease." 

"  My  nullity  and  insignificance!" 

"  Here  is  your  diploma  as  a  member  of  the 
society  for  the  mutual  safeguard  of  the  respec- 
tive rights  of  man  and  animals.  This  morning 
the  installations  take  place.  We  will  be  present 
on  that  occasion." 

M.  de  Simplenville  went  as  he  was  bid.  The 
meeting  was  a  protracted  one.  The  president 
spoke  two  hours  and  a  half,  giving  the  history 
of  all  sorts  of  societies,  past,  present,  and 
future,  without  saying  a  single  Word  about 
that  which  had  caused  them  to  assemble.  At 
last  the  discussion  began;  and  the  speakers 
went  into  the  heart  of  the  question.  Then 
came  a  rolling  fire  of  propositions,  considera- 
tions, observations,  recriminations,  exhorta- 
tions, and  explanations. 

Amongst  other  philobestial  arrangements, 
the  meeting  voted  the  following: — 

"  1.  Man  having  the  incontestable  right  to 
hunt  the  rabbit,  and  the  rabbit  the  no  less 
incontestable  right  to  live,  a  prize-medal  shall 
be  awarded  to  the  sportsman  who,  in  the  course 
of  a  season,  shall  have  fired  the  greatest  number 
of  shots  and  killed  the  smallest  number  of 
rabbits. 

"  2.  Since  one  of  the  chief  duties  of  the 
members  of  this  society  consists  in  propagating, 
by  their  own  proper  example,  the  principles 
which  they  profess  touching  the  respect  due  to 
animals,  they  pledge  themselves  individually 


314 


MADAME  SIMPLE'S  INVESTMENT. 


to  sentence  themselves  to  fines,  graduated  ac- 
cording to  the  gravity  of  the  cause, — so  much 
for  forgetting  to  feed  their  dog  at  the  regular 
hour;  so  much  for  treading  on  pussy's  toes, 
and  double  the  sum  if  it  happens  to  be  her  tail, 
&c.  &c.  £c. 

"3.  Seeing  that,  without  pigs,  a  state  of 
nonentity  is  the  ultimate  condition  and  fate  of 
all  bacon,  ham,  black-pudding,  and  sausages; 
seeing  the  important  part  which  these  various 
eatables  play  in  human  alimentation, — this 
society,  desirous  of  reconciling  the  interests  of 
pork -butchers  with  the  rights  of  a  not  less 
interesting  animal,  hereby  offers  a  prize  of 
three  hundred  francs  to  the  author  of  the  best 
treatise  on  the  art  of  killing  pigs  without  mak- 
ing them  squeal." 

•'What  is  your  opinion,  my  dear,  of  these 
respectable  gentlemen  whose  eloquence  you 
have  just  been  listening  to?"  was  Madame  de 
Simplenville's  question  to  her  husband  as  soon 
as  the  meeting  was  dissolved. 

"  My  opinion,  Goody,  is,  that  the  monkeys 
are  a  great  deal  more  amusing. " 

IX. 

Notwithstanding  M.  de  Simplenville's  ir- 
reverent opinions,  he  was  obliged  to  practise 
all  the  duties,  and  participate  in  all  the  privi- 
leges, of  the  aforesaid  Philobestial  Society. 
And  since  Goody,  who  had  been  seized  with 
the  crotchet  that  her  husband  should  remain  a 
nobody  no  longer,  was  not  a  woman  to  take  i 
half-measures,  before  long  there  was  not  a 
benevolent,  industrial,  or  learned  society  to 
which  he  did  not  belong  in  some  shape  or  other. 
In  this  way  M.  de  Simplenville  soon  found 
himself  at  once  president  of  the  Society  of 
Utilitarian  Botanists,  instituted  for  the  ameli- 
oration of  the  conditions  of  the  colossal  cab- 
bage, the  monster  beet-root,  and  the  phenome- 
nal carrot;  secretary  to  a  joint-stock  company 
which  had  secured  the  patent  of  an  invention 
whose  basis  consisted  in  doubling  the  super- 
ficial area  of  land  by  raising  artificial  mounts 
all  over  its  surface;  reporter  to  a  society  for 
the  propagation  of  sound  literature,  the  object 
of  which  was  the  exclusive  publication  and 
distribution  of  the  works  of  its  members, — all 
writers  of  equal  ability  and  industry ;  and, 
lastly,  questor  to  a  temperance  society,  founded 
for  the  suppression  of  drunkenness, — the  test 
required  to  be  admitted  a  member  consisting 
in  swallowing  four  bottles  of  wine  and  an  equal 
number  of  glasses  of  absinthe,  without  mani- 
festing the  slightest  unsteadiness  of  body  or 
mind. 

But  all  the  while  that  Madame  de  Simplen- 


ville was  in  ecstasies  at  seeing  her  husband 
hold  so  high  a  position — if  not  in  society,  at 
least  in  societies, — the  poor  man  himself  fell 
into  a  deplorable  state.  What  with  presiding 
over  the  meetings,  the  summing  up  of  the 
reports,  the  keeping  of  the  registers,  and  the 
classification  of  documents,  his  time  was  filled 
to  such  a  degree  that  he  had  not  a  moment  to 
collect  his  thoughts.  He  was  reduced  to  the 
state  of  an  automaton.  Nevertheless,  an  ob- 
server might  have  remarked  that  he  occa- 
sionally ground  his  teeth,  and  looked  desper- 
ately fierce,  when  he  heard  people  say,  ' '  Wh:it 
a  lucky  fellow  is  M.  de  Simplenville!  What  a 
capital  thing  it  is  to  have  a  large  fortune!" 
At  such  times  he  invariably  muttered  to  him- 
self, "What  the  deuce  was  I  thinking  about 
when  I  put  into  those  horrid  lotteries?" 

X. 

One  day  M.  de  Simplenville  said  to  Madame, 
"  I  am  harassed, — worn  out, — morally  as  well 
as  physically;  and  I  feel  that  I  want  to  be 
sent  out  to  grass,  exactly  like  an  old  broken- 
down  cab-horse.  Ah,  if  I  could  only  go  into 
the  country ! " 

"Good  heavens!  I  ought  to  have  thought 
of  that,"  exclaimed  Madame  de  Simplenville. 
The  idea  never  entered  my  head;  and  it  is 
Easter  week  already, — the  fashionable  time 
for  ruralizing!  But  it  is  impossible  to  bear 
every  tiling  in  mind." 

She  soon  made  the  discovery  and  the  acqui- 
sition of  a  country-seat  on  the  banks  of  the 
Marne,  flanked  by  four  pepper-box  turrets, 
and  known  as  the  Chateau  de  la  Jobardiere, 
which  gave  her  the  right  of  henceforth  styling 
herself  Madame  de  Simplenville  de  la  Jobar- 
diere. A  gleam  of  joy  illumined  M.  de  Sim- 
plenville's woebegone  countenance. 

"I  shall  get  a  little  rest  at  last,"  he  said, 
stretching  himself  in  delight  on  the  cushions 
of  the  carriage  which  bore  him  to  his  new 
domain. 

But,  alas !  he  must  have  been  made  of  very 
primitive  materials  if  he  fanced  that  people 
with  sixty  thousand  francs  a  year  go  into  the 
country  to  breathe  the  morning  air,  to  loll  on 
the  grass  in  the  noontide  shade,  to  live  at 
their  ease,  and  go  to  bed  early, — in  one  word, 
to  rest  themselves.  As  to  Madame  de  Sim- 
plenville de  la  Jobardiere,  she  was  richly  en- 
dowed with  every  instinct  of  gentility,  and 
understood  the  principles  of  country  life  quite 
as  well  as  she  did  the  routine  of  life  in  town. 
Her  husband,  as  usual,  was  obliged  to  con- 
form. No  sooner  had  they  reached  their 
chateau  than  there  was  a  round  of  calls  to 


MADAME  SIMPLE'S  INVESTMENT. 


315 


make  on  all  the  neighbours  to  entreat  them 
to  come  and  augment  by  their  presence  the 
pleasure  they  anticipated  from  their  country 
residence.  Nor  must  we  omit  to  mention  that 
similar  invitations  had  been  given  to  all  their 
Paris  acquaintances.  In  a  very  short  time 
the  Chateau  de  la  Jobardiere  became  the 
general  rendezvous  for  girls  looking  out  for 
husbands,  young  men  sharp-set  after  well- 
portioned  damsels,  the  male  and  female  rela- 
tions of  each;  with  multitudinous  crowds  of 
parasites,  who,  with  a  very  small  income  of 
their  own,  manage  to  taste  at  other  people's 
houses  all  the  enjoyments  which  wealth  can 
furnish. 

Now,  in  the  midst  of  such  a  rabble  as  this, 
let  us  just  see  what  was  the  kind  of  repose 
permitted  to  poor  M.  de  Simplenville  de  la 
Jobardiere.  In  the  morning  he  had  to  gather 
and  arrange  bouquets  for  all  the  dowagers  and 
old  maids.  When  out  for  a  walk  the  aforesaid 
ladies  begged  him  to  take  charge  of  their  hats 
and  shawls,  converting  him  into  a  species  of 
walking  clothes-press.  Every  day  he  had 
regularly  to  travel  four  or  five  leagues  to 
inform  a  husband  that  he  would  have  to  do 
without  his  wife  for  a  week,  to  beg  a  mother's 
permission  to  rob  her  of  her  daughter,  to  act 
the  sheriff's  officer,  and  apprehend  and  bring 
back,  living  or  dead,  the  fashionable  man  of 
the  neighbourhood,  without  whose  presence 
every  fishing-party  would  end  without  a  bite, 
every  picnic  would  be  spoiled  by  a  shower, 
every  dinner  would  turn  out  as  dull  s.nd  silent 
as  a  funeral  entertainment.  It  may,  perhaps, 
very  naturally  be  inquired  what  the  servants 
were  doing  at  the  Chateau  de  la  Jobardiere. 
But  their  number,  though  far  too  great  in 
town,  was  utterly  insufficient  in  the  country. 
They  had  to  wait  upon  twenty,  thirty,  and 
forty  people  at  once.  Every  service  which 
they  were  unable  to  perform  fell  to  the  lot  of 
M.  de  Simplenville  de  la  Jobardiere.  He, 
consequently,  was  the  head-servant  of  his  own 
establishment,  and  by  far  the  hardest  worked 
of  any.  Chance  did  sometimes  leave  him  a 
few  moments  of  liberty,  which  he  was  obliged 
to  devote  to  keeping  guard  in  the  park,  the 
garden,  or  the  orchard,  in  order  to  put  a  little 
restraint  on  his  numerous  visitors,  who  treated 
flower-beds,  borders,  and  ripening  fruits  with 
no  more  pity  than  a  swarm  of  locusts. 

"What  could  I  be  thinking  of,  gracious 
goodness!  when  I  put  into  those  horrid  lot- 
teries!" was  the  unceasing  exclamation  uttered 
from  morning  till  night  by  M.  de  Simplenville 
de  la  Jobardiere. 

One  day — one  fatal  day — it  rained.     The 


company  were  assembled  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  were  devising  the  means  of  battling  with 
the  weariness  which  bad  weather  brings  in 
country  quarters.  Some  one  proposed  privata 
theatricals.  A  shout  of  delight  welcomed  the 
motion.  The  very  next  day  they  went  to 
work.  To  M.  de  Simplenville  de  la'jobardiere 
was  assigned  the  task  of  erecting  the  theatre, 
planning  the  decorations,  arranging  the  seats 
and  the  mode  of  lighting.  He  had  parts  to 
copy  in  round-hand  text,  to  save  the  eyesight 
of  the  various  actors.  He  was  chosen  referee 
and  umpire  in  the  endless  disputes  which 
Thalia  is  sure  to  inspire  in  little  theatres  as 
well  as  in  great  ones.  And  besides  that,  he 
had  to  study  a  long,  stupid  part,  which  it  was 
unanimously  decided  he  alone  was  capable  of 
filling. 

It  was  too  much !  For  some  time  past  the 
measure  had  been  full;  nothing  now  could 
hinder  the  vessel  from  overflowing. 

In  the  middle  of  a  dark  night,  during  which 
he  saw  dancing  before  his  eyes  a  medley  of 
bouquets,  hats,  shawls,  benches,  side-scenes,  and 
lamps,  all  performing  a  sort  of  witch-like  jig, 
M.  de  Simplenville  de  la  Jobardiere  suddenly 
jumped  out  of  bed,  stole  out  of  the  chateau  with 
nothing  on  but  his  shirt  and  his  cotton  night- 
cap, crossed  the  park,  made  straight  for  the  open 
country,  with  his  arms  folded,  his  head  resting 
upon  his  breast,  walking  on  with  that  solemn 
pace  which  budding  tragedians  delight  to  imi- 
tate. After  devoting  a  considerable  time  to 
this  gymnastic  but  unhealthy  exercise,  he 
reached  the  foot  of  a  lofty  mountain.  Then 
he  climbed  from  rock  to  rock,  constantly 
maintaining  the  same  pace  and  attitude.  Ar- 
rived at  the  summit,  he  found  himself  on  the 
edge  of  a  precipice  whose  depth  it  was  impos- 
sible to  fathom.  He  halted  a  moment,  glanced 
a  look  of  bitter  scorn  at  the  world  behind  him, 
and,  with  one  loud,  resounding  yell,  cast  him- 
self headlong  into  the  abyss! 

XL 

At  eight  o'clock  next  morning  the  sunshine 
was  playing  on  the  white  curtains  of  her  bed, 
when  Madame  Simple  sat  up  and  looked  about 
her. 

"Old  ducky  darling!"  said  she  impatiently. 

Monsieur  Simple  stretched  out  first  one  arm 
and  then  the  other. 

"Wake  up,  my  pet!  make  haste  and  wake, 
else  we  shall  be  too  late  to  see  the  monkeys 
let  out." 

M.  Simple  rubbed  his  eyes,  looked  first  at 
his  wife,  then  at  the  bed,  and  then  all  around 
the  chamber.  Everything  was  in  its  usual 


316 


THE  RED-NOSED  LIEUTENANT. 


state, — the  pair  of  turtles  cooing  in  their  cage, 
Pyrame  grunting  at  his  mistress'  feet,  and 
Minette  stretched  carelessly  on  the  hearth. 
He  then  pronounced  the  voluptuous  "Ah!" 
which  a  man  utters  when  he  feels  his  bosom 
relieved  of  a  heavy  load.  M.  Simple  discovered 
with  joy  that  he  had  been  the  victim  of  a 
frightful  nightmare! 

"Oh,  yes,  Goody!"  he  said,  pausing  in  the 
operation  of  washing  his  face:  "let  us  go  and 
see  the  monkeys ;  and  to-night  we  will  play 
our  game  of  piquet.  Happiness  lies  in  peace 
and  contentment,  and  not  in  the  plagues  and 
worries  of  wealth.  Preserve  me  from  such 
another  dream!" 

Old  and  New,  1871. 


SONG. 

[Henry  Neele,  born  in  London,  20th  January, 
179$ ;  died  7th  February,  1828.  He  was  an  attorney  by 
profession,  but  his  entire  sympathies  were  given  to 
literature.  During  his  brief  career  he  produced  various 
poems,  tales,  and  sketches,  and  wrote  an  interesting 
work  entitled  the  Romance  of  History.  Unhappily  his 
reason  became  affected,  and  in  a  fit  of  insanity  he  de- 
stroyed his  own  life.  A  complete  edition,  of  his  works 
was  published  in  1829.] 

"  Old  man,  old  man,  thy  locks  are  gray, 

And  the  winter  winds  blow  cold ; 
Why  wander  abroad  on  thy  weary  way, 

And  leave  thy  home's  warm  fold?" 
"  The  winter  winds  blow  cold,  'tis  true, 

And  I  am  old  to  roam  ; 
But  I  may  wander  the  wide  world  through, 
Ere  I  shall  find  my  home." 

"  And  where  do  thy  children  loiter  so  long? 

Have  they  left  thee,  thus  old  anil  forlorn, 
To  wander  wild  heather  and  hills  among, 
While  they  quaff  from  the  lusty  horn?" 
"  My  children  have  long  since  sunk  to  rest, 

To  that  rest  which  I  would  were  my  own; 
I  have  seen  the  green  turf  placed  over  each  breast, 
And  read  each  loved  name  on  the  stone." 

"  Then  haste  to  the  friends  of  thy  youth,  old  nun, 

Who  loved  thee  in  days  of  yor« ; 
They  will  warm  thy  old  blood  with  the  foaming  can, 

And  sorrow  shall  chill  it  no  more." 
*  To  the  friends  of  my  youth  in  far  distant  parts, 

Over  moor,  over  mount  I  have  sped; 
But  the  kind  I  found  in  their  graves,  and  the  hearts 
Of  the  living  were  cold  as  the  dead." 

The  old  man's  cheek  as  he  spake  grew  pale ; 

On  the  grass-green  sod  he  sank, 
While  the  evening  sun  o'er  the  western  vale 

Set  'mid  clouds  and  vapours  dank. 


On  the  morrow  that  sun  in  the  eastern  skies 
Rose  ruddy  and  warm  and  bright; 

But  never  again  did  that  old  man  rise 
From  the  sod  which  he  press'd  that  nighu 


THE  RED-NOSED  LIEUTENANTS 

Five-and-twenty  years  ago  I  was  just  five- 
and-twenty  years  of  age.  I  was  thus  neither 
young  nor  old;  in  addition,  I  was  neither 
handsome  nor  ugly,  neither  rich  nor  poor, 
neither  active  nor  indolent,  neither  a  Socrates 
nor  a  simpleton.  More  ordinary  men  than  I 
had  been  married  for  love,  poorer  men  had  got 
credit  and  rolled  on  their  carriage-wheels  till 
it  was  out,  and  greater  fools  had  been  cabinet 
councillors.  Yet  all  this  did  not  satisfy  me. 
Years  had  swept  along,  and  I  was  exactly  the 
same  in  point  of  publicity  at  five-and -twenty 
that  I  had  been  at  fifteen.  Let  no  man  say 
that  the  passion  for  being  something  or  other 
in  the  world's  eye  is  an  improbable  thing. 
Show  me  that  man,  and  I  will  show  him  my 
Lord  A.  driving  a  mail-coach,  the  Earl  of  B. 
betting  at  a  boxing-match,  the  Marquis  of  C. 
the  rival  of  his  own  grooms,  and  the  Duke  of 
D.  a  director  of  the  opera.  My  antagonist  has 
only  to  look  and  be  convinced;  for  what  could 
throw  these  patricians  into  the  very  jaws  of 
public  jest  but  the  passion  for  publicity?  I 
pondered  long  upon  this,  and  my  resolution  to 
do  something  was  at  length  fixed.  But  the 
grand  difficulty  remained, — what  was  the  thing 
to  be  done?  what  was  the  grand  chemin  d'hon- 
neur — the  longest  stride  to  the  temple  of  fame, 
the  royal  road  to  making  a  figure  in  one's 
generation?  The  step  was  too  momentous  to 
be  rashly  taken,  and  I  took  time  enough,  for  I 
took  a  year.  On  my  six-and-twentieth  birth- 
day I  discovered  that  I  was  as  wise  and  as 
public  as  on  my  birth-day  before,  and  a  year 
older  besides!  While  I  was  in  this  state  of 
fluctuation  my  honoured  uncle  arrived  in  town 
and  called  upon  me.  Let  me  introduce  thig 
most  excellent  and  most  mutilated  man.  He 
had  commenced  his  career  in  the  American 
war — a  bold,  brave,  blooming  ensign.  What 
he  was  now  I  shall  not  describe;  but  he  had 
taken  the  earliest  opportunity  of  glory,  and  at 
Bunker's  Hill  had  lost  an  eye.  He  was  no- 
thing the  worse  as  a  mark  for  an  American  rifle; 
and  at  Brandy  wine  he  had  the  honour  of  seeing 
La  Fayette  run  away  before  him,  and  paid 
only  a  right  leg  as  his  tribute  to  the  victory. 

1  From  the  Forget-me-not,  1827. 


THE  EED-NOSED  LIEUTENANT. 


317 


My  uncle  followed  on  the  road  to  glory,  gaining 
a  new  leaf  of  laurel  and  losing  an  additional 
fragment  of  himself  in  every  new  battle,  till 
with  Burgoyne  he  left  his  nose  in  the  swamps  of 
Saratoga,  whence,  having  had  the  good  fortune 
to  make  his  escape,  he  distinguished  himself  at 
the  siege  of  York  Town,  under  Corn  wall  is,  and 
left  only  an  arm  in  the  ditch  of  the  rampart. 
He  had  returned  a  major,  and  after  lying  on 
his  back  for  two  years  in  the  military  hospital, 
was  set  at  liberty  to  walk  the  world  on  a  pair 
of  crutches,  and  be  called  colonel.  I  explained 
my  difficulty  to  this  venerable  remnant  of  sol- 
diership. "Difficulty!"  cried  he,  starting  up 
on  his  residuary  leg,  "  I  see  none  whatever. 
You  are  young,  healthy,  and  have  the  use  of 
all  your  limbs — the  very  thing  for  the  army!" 
I  glanced  involuntarily  at  his  own  contribu- 
tions to  the  field.  He  perceived  it,  and  re- 
torted, "  Sir,  I  know  the  difference  between 
us  as  well  as  if  I  were  the  field-surgeon.  I 
should  never  have  advised  you  to  march  if  you 
had  not  limbs  enough  for  the  purpose ;  but 
you  have  your  complement. "  "And  therefore 
can  afford  to  lose  them,  my  good  uncle,"  said 
I.  "Nephew,"  was  the  reply,  "sneering  is 
no  argument,  except  among  civilians.  But  if 
a  man  wants  to  climb  at  once  to  a  name,  let 
him  try  the  army.  Have  you  no  estate?  why, 
the  regiment  is  your  freehold ;  have  you  no 
education?  why,  the  colour  of  your  coat  will 
stand  you  in  place  of  it  with  three-fourths  of 
the  men  and  all  the  women ;  have  you  no 
brains?  why,  their  absence  will  never  be  missed 
at  the  mess;  and  as  for  the  field,  not  half  a 
dozen  in  an  army  ever  exhibit  any  pretensions 
of  the  kind."  This  was  too  flattering  a  pros- 
pect to  be  overlooked.  I  took  the  advice;  in 
a  week  was  gazetted  into  a  marching  regiment, 
and  in  another  week  was  on  board  his  Majesty's 
transport  No.  10  with  a  wing  of  the  gallant 
thirty regiment,  tacking  out  of  Ports- 
mouth on  our  way  to  Gibraltar.  Military 
men  have  it  that  there  are  three  bad  passages 
— the  slow,  the  quick,  and  the  neither  quick 
nor  slow:  pronouncing  the  two  former  detest- 
able, the  latter !  the  storm  making  a 

man  sick  of  the  sea;  the  calm  making  him 
sick  of  himself — a  much  worse  thing;  and  the 
alternation  of  calm  and  storm  bringing  both 
sicknesses  into  one.  My  first  passage  was 
distinguished  by  being  of  the  third  order.  I 
found  my  fellow- subalterns  a  knot  of  good- 
humoured  beings — the  boys  with  the  habits  of 
men,  the  men  with  the  tricks  of  boys — all 
fully  impressed  with  the  honour  of  the  epau- 
lette, and  thinking  the  man  who  wore  two 
instead  of  one  the  most  favoured  of  all  things 


under  the  sun.  We  at  length  came  in  sight  of 
the  famous  Rock.  It  loomed  magnificently 
from  the  sea;  and  every  glass  was  to  the  eye 
as  the  lines  and  batteries,  that  looked  like 
teeth  in  its  old  white  head,  rose  grimly  out  of 
the  waters.  The  veterans  of  the  corps  were  in 
high  delight,  and  enumerated  with  the  vigour 
of  grateful  recollection  the  cheapness  of  the 
wines,  the  snugness  of  the  quarters,  and  the 
general  laudible  and  illaudible  pleasantries  of 
the  place.  The  younger  listened  with  the 
respect  due  to  experience,  and,  for  that  even- 
ing, an  old  red-nosed  lieutenant,  of  whom  no 
man  had  ever  thought  but  as  a  lieutenant 
before,  became  the  centre  of  a  circle — a  he  blue- 
stocking surrounded  with  obsequious  listeners, 
by  virtue  of  his  pre-eminent  knowledge  of 
every  wine-house  in  the  garrison.  Such  is  the 
advantage  of  situation!  Nine- tenths  of  man- 
kind, till  they  are  placed  on  the  spot  of  dis- 
play, what  are  they  but  red-nosed  lieutenants? 

At  Gibraltar,  like  Thicbault  in  Frederic's 
paradise  at  Potsdam,  we  conjugated  from 
morning  till  night  the  verb,  "  Je  m'ennuie,  tu 
t'enmiies,  il  s'ennuie,"  through  all  its  persons, 
tenses,  and  moods.  At  length  we  were  ordered 
for  Egypt.  Never  was  regiment  so  delighted. 
We  supped  together  upon  the  news,  and  drank 

farewell  to  Gibraltar  and  confusion  to in 

bumpers  without  measure.  In  the  very  height 
of  our  carousal  my  eye  dropped  upon  my  old 
friend's  red  nose.  It  served  me  as  a  kind  of 
thermometer.  I  observed  it  diminished  of 
its  usual  crimson.  "The  spirit  has  fallen," 
thought  I;'  "there  is  ill  luck  in  the  wind." 
I  took  him  aside,  but  he  was  then  too  far  gone 
for  regular  counsel;  he  only  clasped  my  hand 
with  the  fervour  of  a  fellow-drinker,  and  mut- 
tered out,  lifting  his  glass  with  a  shaking 
wrist,  "Nothing  but  confoundedly  bad  brandy 
in  Egypt  for  love  or  money."  We  sailed;  were 
shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of  Caramania,  and 
surrounded  by  natives.  Soldiers  are  no  great 
geographers;  the  line  leave  that  business  to 
the  staff,  the  staff  to  the  artillery,  the  artillery 
to  the  engineers,  and  the  engineers  to  Provid- 
ence. At  our  council,  which  was  held  on  a 
row  of  knapsacks,  and  with  one  pair  of  trousers 
among  its  seven  sages,  it  was  asserted,  with 
equal  show  of  reason,  that  we  were  in  Africa, 
in  Arabia,  in  Turkey,  and  in  the  Black  Sea. 
However,  our  sheepskin  friends  were  urgent 
for  our  departure. 

We  finally  sailed  for  Egypt;  found  the 
French  building  fortifications  on  the  shore; 
and,  like  a  generous  enemy,  landed  just  where 
they  had  provided  for  our  reception.  But  the 
world  knows  all  this  already,  and  I  disdain  te 


313 


THE  RED-NOSED  LIEUTENANT. 


tell  wkat  everybody  knows.  But  the  world 
does  not  know  that  we  had  three  councils  of 
war  to  settle  whether  the  troops  should  land 
in  gaiters  or  fa-ourcrs,  and  whether  they  should 
or  should  not  carry  three  days'  pipe-clay  and 
blacking  in  their  knapsacks.  The  most  valu- 
able facts  are,  we  see,  often  lost  for  want  of 
our  being  a  little  behind  the  curtain.  The 
famous  landing  was  the  noisiest  thing  conceiv- 
able. The  world  at  a  distance  called  it  the 
most  gallant  thing,  and  I  have  no  inclination 
to  stand  up  against  universal  opinion.  But 
whether  we  were  fighting  against  the  sandhills, 
or  the  French,  or  the  sun  in  his  strength; 
whether  we  were  going  to  the  right,  or  the 
left,  or  the  rear;  whether  we  were  beating  or 
beaten,  no  living  man  could  have  told  in  two 
minutes  after  the  first  shot.  It  was  all  cla- 
mour, confusion,  bursting  of  shells,  dashing  of 
water,  splitting  of  boats,  and  screams  of  the 
wounded, — the  whole  passing  under  a  coverlet 
of  smoke  as  fuliginous  as  ever  rushed  from 
furnace.  Under  this  "blanket  of  the  dark" 
we  pulled  on,  landed,  fought,  and  conquered; 
and  for  our  triumph,  had  every  man  his  length 
of  excellent  sand  for  the  night,  the  canopy  of 
heaven  for  his  tent,  and  the  profoundest  curses 
of  the  commissariat  for  his  supper.  On  we 
went  day  after  day,  fighting  the  French,  starv- 
ing, and  scorching,  till  we  found  them  in  our 
camp  before  daybreak  on  the  memorable  21st 
of  March.  We  fought  them  there  as  men  fight 
in  the  pit  of  a  theatre,  every  one  for  himself. 
The  French,  who  are  great  tacticians,  and 
never  fight  but  for  science  sake,  grew  tired 
before  John  Bull,  who  fights  for  the  love  of  the 
thing.  The  Frenchman  fights  but  to  man- 
O3uvre,  the  Englishman  manoeuvres  but  to 
fight.  So,  as  manoeuvring  was  out  of  the 
question,  we  carried  the  affair  all  after  our 
own  hearts.  But  this  victory  had  its  price, 
for  it  cost  the  army  its  brave  old  general,  and 
it  cost  me  my  old  red-nosed  lieutenant.  We 
were  standing  within  half  a  foot  of  each  other, 
in  front  of  the  little  ruin  where  the  French 
Invincibles  made  a  last  struggle;  they  fired  a 
volley  before  they  threw  themselves  on  their 
knees,  according  to  the  national  custom  of 
earning  their  lives,  when  I  saw  my  unlucky 
friend  tumbled  head  over  heels,  and  stretched 
between  my  legs.  There  was  no  time  for 
thinking  of  him  then.  The  French  were  hunt- 
ed out,  la  bayonette  dans  le  cul;  we  followed, 
the  battle  of  Alexandria  was  won,  and  our 
part  of  the  success  was  to  be  marched  ten  miles 
off  to  look  after  some  of  their  fragments  of 
baggage.  We  found  nothing,  of  course ;  for 
neither  in  defeat  nor  in  victory  does  the  French- 


man ever  forget  himself.  In  our  bivouac  the 
thought  of  the  lieutenant  came  over  me:  in 
the  heat  of  the  march  I  could  not  have  thought 
of  anything  mortal  but  my  own  parched  throat 
and  crippled  limbs.  Absurd  as  the  old  subal- 
tern was,  I  "could  have  better  spared  a  better 
man."  We  had  been  thrown  together  in  some 
strange  ways,  and  as  the  result  of  my  medita- 
tions I  determined  to  return  and  see  what  was 
become  of  the  man  with  the  red  nose.  Leave 
was  easily  obtained,  for  there  was  something 
of  the  odd  feeling  for  him  that  a  regiment  has 
for  one  of  those  harmless  madmen  who  some- 
times follow  its  drums  in  a  ragged  uniform 
and  formidable  hat  and  feather.  It  was  lucky 
for  the  lieutenant  that  I  rode  hard,  for  I  found 
him  as  near  a  premature  exit  as  ever  hero  was. 
A  working-party  had  already  made  his  last 
bed  in  the  sand,  and  he  was  about  to  take  that 
possession  which  no  ejectment  will  disturb, 
when  I  felt  some  throbbing  about  his  heart. 
The  soldiers  insisted  that  as  they  were  ordered 
out  for  the  purpose  of  inhuming,  they  should 
go  through  with  their  work.  But  if  they  were 
sullen,  I  was  resolute;  and  I  prevailed  to  have 
the  subject  deferred  to  the  hospital.  After  an 
infinity  of  doubt  I  saw  my  old  friend  set  on 
his  legs  again.  But  my  labour  seemed  in  vain; 
life  was  going  out;  the  doctors  prohibited  the 
bottle;  and  the  lieutenant  felt,  like  Shylock, 
that  his  life  was  taken  away  when  that  was 
taken  "by  which  he  did  live."  He  resigned 
himself  to  die  with  the  composure  of  an  ancient 
philosopher.  The  night  before  I  marched  for 
Cairo  I  sat  an  hour  with  him.  He  was  a 
changed  man,  talked  more  rationally  than  I 
had  believed  within  the  possibility  of  brains  so 
many  years  adust  with  port,  expressed  some 
rough  gratitude  for  my  trouble  about  him,  and 
finally  gave  me  a  letter  to  some  of  his  relatives 
in  England.  The  regiment  was  on  its  march 
at  daybreak ;  we  made  our  way  to  Cairo,  took 
possession,  wondered  at  its  filth,  admired  its 
grand  mosque,  execrated  its  water,  its  provi- 
sions, and  its  population ;  were  marched  back 
to  storm  Alexandria  (where  I  made  all  possible 
search  for  the  lieutenant,  but  in  vain);  were 
saved  the  trouble  by  the  capitulation  of  the 
French;  were  embarked,  landed  at  Portsmouth 
just  one  year  from  our  leaving  it,  and,  as  it 
pleased  the  wisdom  of  Napoleon  and  the  folly 
of  our  ministry,  were  disbanded.  I  had  no 
reason  to  complain,  for  though  I  had  been 
shipwrecked  and  starved,  sick  and  wounded,  I 
had  left  neither  my  life  nor  my  legs  behind. 
Others  had  been  less  lucky,  and  from  the  losses 
in  the  regiment  I  was  now  a  captain.  One 
day  in  looking  over  the  relics  of  my  baggage, 


THE  WALL-FLOWER. 


319 


a  letter  fell  out:  it  was  the  red-nosed  lieuten- 
ant's. My  conscience  reproached  me,  and  I 
believe  for  the  moment  my  face  was  as  red  as 
his  nose.  I  delivered  the  letter;  it  was  re- 
ceived by  a  matron  at  the  head  of  three  of  the 
prettiest  maidens  in  all  Lancashire,  the  country 
'ul  beauty — a  blonde,  a  brunette,  and  a  younger 
one  who  was  neither,  and  yet  seemed  alter- 
nately both.  I  liked  the  blonde  and  the  bru- 
nette infinitely,  but  the  third  I  did  not  like, 
for  I  fell  in  love  with  her,  which  is  a  very 
different  thing.  The  lieutenant  was  her  uncle, 
and  regretted  as  his  habits  were,  this  family 
circle  had  much  to  say  for  his  generosity. 
Mary's  hazel  eyes  made  a  fool  of  me,  and  I 
asked  her  hand  that  they  might  make  a  fool 
of  no  one  else.  The  colonel  without  the  nose 
was  of  course  invited  to  the  wedding,  and  he 
was  in  such  exultation  that  either  the  blonde 
or  the  brunette  might  have  been  my  aunt  if 
she  pleased.  But  they  exhibited  no  tendency 
to  this  gay  military  Torso,  and  the  colonel  was 
forced  to  content  himself  with  the  experience 
of  hie  submissive  nephew.  The  wedding-day 
came,  and  the  three  sisters  looked  prettier 
than  ever  in  their  vestal  white.  The  colonel 
gave  the  bride  away,  and  in  the  tears  and 
congratulations  of  this  most  melancholy  of  all 
happy  ceremonies  Mary  chose  her  fate.  We 
returned  to  dinner,  and  were  seated,  all  smiles, 
when  the  door  opened,  and  in  walked  —  the 
red-nosed  lieutenant!  Had  I  seen,  like  Brutus, 
"the  immortal  Julius'  ghost,"  I  could  not 
have  been  more  amazed.  But  nature  was  less 
doubting.  The  matron  threw  herself  into  his 
arms ;  the  blonde  and  the  brunette  clasped 
each  a  hand;  and  my  bright-eyed  wife  forgot 
the  conjugal  duties,  and  seemed  to  forget 
that  I  was  in  the  world.  There  was  indeed 
some  reason  for  doubt :  the  man  before  us  was 
fat  and  florid  enough,  but  the  essential  dis- 
tinction of  his  physiognomy  had  lost  its  regal 
hue.  All  this,  however,  was  explained  by 
degrees.  After  my  departure  for  Cairo  he  had 
been  given  over  by  the  doctors;  and  sick  of 
taking  physic,  and  determining  to  die  in  his 
own  way,  he  had  himself  carried  up  the  Nile. 
The  change  of  air  did  something  for  him — the 
absence  of  the  doctors  perhaps  more.  He 
domesticated  himself  among  the  peasants  above 
the  cataracts,  drank  camel's  milk,  ate  rice, 
wore  a  haick,  and  rode  a  buffalo.  Port  was 
inaccessible,  and  date-brandy  was  not  to  his 
taste.  Health  forced  itself  on  him;  and  the 
sheik  of  the  district  began  to  conceive  so  good 
an  opinion  of  the  stranger  that  he  offered  him 
his  daughter,  with  a  handsome  portion  of  buf- 
faloes, in  marriage.  The  offer  was  declined. 


But  African  offence  is  a  formidable  thing;  and 
after  having  had  a  carbine-load  of  balls  dis- 
charged one  night  through  his  door,  he  thought 
it  advisable  to  leave  the  neighbourhood  of  his 
intended  father-in-law.  I  am  not  about  to 
astonish  the  world,  and  throw  unbelief  on  my 
true  story,  by  saying  that  the  lieutenant  ha* 
since  drank  of  nothing  but  the  limpid  spring. 
Whatever  were  his  Mussulman  habits,  he  re- 
sumed his  native  tastes  with  the  force  of 
nature.  Port  still  had  temptations  for  him; 
but  prudence,  in  the  shape  of  the  matron  sister 
and  the  pretty  nieces,  was  at  hand,  and,  like 
Sancho's  physician,  the  danger  and  the  glass 
vanished  at  a  sign  from  those  gentle  magicians. 
Our  chief  anxiety  arose  from  the  good-fellow- 
ship of  the  colonel.  He  had  settled  within  a 
field  of  us,  and  his  evenings  were  spent  by  our 
fireside.  He  had  been,  by  the  chances  of  ser- 
vice, once  on  campaign  with  the  lieutenant; 
and  all  campaigners  know  that  there  is  no 
free-mason  sign  of  friendship  equal  to  that  of 
standing  to  be  shot  at  together.  But  there 
was  an  unexpected  preservative  in  this  hazard- 
ous society.  The  colonel  was  incapable  of 
exhibiting  in  the  centre  of  his  countenance 
that  living  splendour  which  made  Falstaff 
raise  Bardolph  to  the  honour  of  his  admiral; 
he  could  "carry  no  lantern  in  his  poop."  If 
envy  could  have  invaded  his  generous  soul  it 
would  have  arisen  at  the  old  restored  distinc- 
tion of  his  comrade.  He  watched  over  his 
regimen,  kept  him  to  the  most  judicious  allow- 
ance of  claret:  and  the  red  nose  of  the  lieu- 
tenant never  flamed  again. 

DR.  MAGIKN. 


THE  WALL-FLOWER. i 

"Why  loves  my  flower,  the  sweetest  flower 

That  swells  the  golden  breast  of  May, 
Thrown  rudely  o'er  this  ruin'd  tower, 
To  waste  the  solitary  day? 

"Why,  when  the  mead,  the  spicy  vale, 

The  grove  and  genial  garden  call, 
Will  she  her  fragrant  soul  exhale 
Unheeded  on  the  lonely  wall? 

"For  never  sure  was  beauty  born, 

To  live  in  death's  deserted  shade! 
Come,  lovely  flower,  iny  banks  adoro. 
My  banks  for  life  and  beauty  inacifl-" 


•From  Langhorne's  Fablei  of  Flora.  This  piece  it 
remarkable  as  being  one  from  which  the  aatboi  at 
Waverley  has  taken  several  of  his  mottoes. 


320 


AT  THE  SHRINE. 


Thus  pity  wak'd  the  tender  thought; 

And,  by  her  sweet  persuasion  led, 
To  seize  the  hermit  flower  I  sought, 

Aud  bear  her  from  her  stony  bed. 

I  sought, — but  sudden  on  mine  ear 
A  voice  in  hollow  murmurs  broke, 

And  smote  my  heart  with  holy  fear — 
The  Genius  of  the  Ruin  spoke. 

"From  thee  be  far  th'  ungentle  deed, 
The  honours  of  the  dead  to  spoil, 
Or  take  the  sole  remaining  meed, 
The  flower  that  crowns  the  former  toil ! 

"Nor  deem  that  flower  the  garden's  foe, 

Or  fond  to  grace  this  barren  shade; 
'Tis  nature  tells  her  to  bestow 
Her  honours  on  the  lonely  dead. 

"For  this,  obedient  zephyrs  bear 

Her  light  seeds  round  yon  turret's  mould, 
And  undispers'd  by  tempests  there, 
They  rise  in  vegetable  gold. 

"Nor  shall  thy  wonder  wake  to  see 

Such  desert  scenes  distinction  crave;    • 
Oft  have  they  been,  and  oft  shall  be 
Truth's,  honour's,  valour's,  beauty's  grave. 

"Where  longs  to  fall  that  rifted  spire, 

As  weary  of  th'  insulting  air; 
The  poet's  thought,  the  warrior's  fire, 
The  lover's  sighs  are  sleeping  there. 

"When  that,  too,  shades  the  trembling  ground, 

Borne  down  by  some  tempestuous  sky, 
And  many  a  slumbering  cottage  round 
Startles — how  still  their  hearts  will  lie ! 

"Of  them  who,  wrapp'd  in  earth  so  cold, 
No  more  the  smiling  day  shall  view, 
Should  many  a  tender  tale  be  told; 
For  many  a  tender  thought  is  due. 

"Hast  thou  not  seen  some  lover  pale, 

When  ev'niug  brought  the  pensive  hour, 
Step  slowly  o'er  the  shadowy  vale, 
And  stop  to  pluck  the  frequent  flower? 

"Those  flowers  he  surely  meant  to  strew 

On  lost  affection's  lowly  cell, 
Tho'  there,  as  fond  remembrance  grew,— 
Forgotten  from  his  hand  they  fell. 

"  Has  not  for  thee  the  fragrant  thorn 

Been  taught  her  first  rose  to  resign? 
Wit!)  vain  but  pious  fondness  borne, 
To  deck  thy  Nancy's  honour'd  shrine ! 

"'Tis  nature  pleading  in  the  breast, 

Fair  memory  of  her  works  to  find; 

And  when  to  fate  she  yields  the  rest, 

She  claims  the  monumental  mind. 


"Why,  else,  the  o'ergrown  paths  of  time 
Would  thus  the  letter'd  sage  explore, 
With  pain  these  crumbling  ruins  climb. 
And  on  the  doubtful  sculpture  po/ei 

"Why  seeks  he  with  unwearied  toil 

Through  death's  dim  walk  to  urge  his  wny, 
Reclaim  his  long-asserted  spoil, 
And  lead  oblivion  into  day?" 


AT  THE  SHRINE. 

Teresa  Berini  was  the  daughter  of  an  inn- 
keeper in  one  of  the  little  villages  that  lie 
along  the  foot  of  the  Sabine  Hills.  She 
had  been  a  gay  and  spirited  young  woman, 
and  had  had  her  own  share  of  lovers.  Had 
she  been  as  conscientious  in  confessing  the 
peccadilloes  which  she  had  slid  into  by  the 
necessity  for  what  she  had  come  to  deem  a 
little  guileless  deceit  towards  rivals,  as  she 
was  in  acknowledging  terribly  vicious  thoughts 
and  desires,  she  would  have  been  at  confession 
even  oftener  than  she  was.  The  priest,  Padre 
Androvi,  a  shrewd  and  active  man,  who  knew 
more  about  the  affairs  of  the  young  women  of 
the  village  than  he  chose  to  acknowledge  in 
their  hearing,  would  sit  with  eyes  apparently 
half-closed,  as  in  a  dream,  listening  to  Teresa's 
confession,  only  now  and  then  putting  a  quiet 
question  calculated  to  draw  forth  more  detailed 
admissions.  At  length  he  would  wind  up  by 
saying  to  her — 

"  My  daughter,  such  thoughts  as  these  come 
to  all  of  us  unbidden.  If  we  entertain  them 
not,  the  church,  like  a  good  mother,  freely 
absolves  without  rebuke.  It  is  only  when 
they  are  hospitably  provided  for,  and  try  to 
pay  us  for  such  entertainment  as  we  give  them 
by  urging  us  to  falseness  or  cruelty  of  act  or 
word,  that  they  are  in  danger  of  becoming 
deadly.  Go  in  peace,  my  daughter,  and  forget 
not  to  pray  for  counsel  and  help  to  our  sacred 
mother  Mary." 

Now,  over  and  over  again  had  the  padre 
dismissed  Teresa  in  this  wise.  And  she  would 
go  straight  from  confession  to  deceive  a  lover; 
for  it  must  be  known  that,  as  the  daughter  of 
Jacopo  Berini,  she  was  esteemed  a  prize  worth 
striving  for  among  the  young  men  of  the  dis- 
trict. Jacopo  having  conducted  the  inn  with 
shrewdness  and  economy  for  nearly  half  a  life- 
time, and  having  at  the  same  time  looked  very 
sharply  after  a  mulberry-yard,  and  always  sold 
his  silk  well,  was  a  man  of  some  means;  and 


C.  Rolls,  sculp? 


AT  THE  SHRINE. 


321 


Teresa  herself  was  attractive.  Her  eyes  were 
dark  and  sparkling,  as  Italian  women's  are 
wont  to  be,  but  they  had  a  softness  that  gave 
a  peculiar  deptli  to  their  charm;  her  features, 
though  not  too  pronounced,  were  well  formed, 
and  her  skin  was  fairer  than  is  usual  with 
Italian  women.  And  she  was  not  only  attrac- 
tive, but  clever.  Ever  since  her  mother's 
death,  which  had  taken  place  some  ten  years 
bsfore  in  giving  birth  to  a  second  daughter, 
Teresa  had  looked  after  the  domestic  arrange- 
ments, and  the  prospect  was  that  the  man  she 
accepted  would  succeed  her  father  in  the  inn. 

So  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  at  fair 
and  festa,  or  at  harvest  or  vintage-gathering, 
her  hand  was  greatly  in  request;  and  many 
were  the  offerings  of  flowers  and  fruits  that 
were  brought  to  her.  But  of  her  admirers 
there  were  two  more  noted  than  all  the  rest — 
Paolo  Benzi,  the  village  blacksmith,  and  Carlo 
Speni,  the  mule-driver  between  the  village  and 
the  city.  Carlo  had  been  her  friend  from 
childhood;  but  Paolo  had  come  from  tlie  Nea- 
politan side  a  few  years  before,  and  had  settled 
in  the  village.  Now,  though  Carlo  was  fav- 
oured by  the  father,  Teresa  loved  Paolo.  But 
she  hated  the  thought  of  vexing  her  father, 
and  her  devotion  to  him  encouraged  her  in  her 
deceptions.  Her  secret  thoughts  and  her  un- 
noticed smiles  were  all  for  Paolo;  but  she  had 
to  make  feint  of  openly  wooing  Carlo,  hard  as 
it  was  for  her.  Often  as  she  went  singing 
about  her  work,  while  her  father  sat  thinking 
what  a  fine  pair  she  and  Carlo  would  make, 
she  was  thinking  sadly  to  herself,  in  spite  of 
all  her  outward  cheer,  "  I  know  what's  in  his 
head;  but  for  all  that  I  know  at  the  same  time 
I  shall  never  marry  Carlo;"  and  a  sigh  would 
steal  from  her  in  the  pauses  of  her  song. 

Of  course  it  could  not  wholly  escape  Carlo 
that  she  looked  on  his  rival,  the  blacksmith, 
with  favour;  but  he  flattered  himself  that  the 
authority  of  the  father  would  be  enough  to 
secure  success  to  his  suit  in  the  long  run.  So 
he  waited,  but  he  could  not  help  watching;  for 
when  was  lover  in  such  circumstances  ever  with- 
out jealousy  ?  But  Paolo  waited  and  watched 
likewise,  for  love  made  him  determined;  and 
the  sweet  consciousness  that  he  was  loved  ren- 
dered him  strong  and  resolute.  So  one  evening 
he  wandered  up  the  hill  behind  the  village  by  a 
road  to  a  vineyard,  which  he  knew  that  Teresa 
was  wont  to  visit.  He  sauntered  leisurely 
along,  not  taking  much  notice  of  the  beauty 
of  the  olives  and  the  wild  vines  that  festooned 
the  way;  and  at  length  he  sat  himself  down 
under  a  mulberry-tree  to  rest.  He  had  not 
sat  long  when  he  saw  Teresa  round  a  corner  of 

VOL.  L 


the  road;  but,  to  his  great  chagrin,  Carlo  was 
with  her,  carrying  her  basket  and  smiling 
down  on  her.  Paolo  was  stung  as  he  Iiad 
never  been  before,  and  crept  round  to  the  other 
side  of  the  tree  to  hide,  and  gathered  himself 
together  with  a  muttered  curse.  They  'avme 
on  slowly,  as  though  they  were  both  concerned 
to  prolong  the  journey — to  make  each  step 
take  as  much  time  as  possible;  and  Paolo 
could  hear  snatches  of  their  conversation — only 
snatches,  for  if  he  had  heard  the  whole  he 
might  have  taken  consolation  instead  of  voviiig 
revenge. 

"  How  nice  it  will  be  to  live  up  there  in  the 
summer,  in  the  little  house  beside  the  yard, 
when  we  are  man  and  wife,"  said  Carlo,  who 
had  been  induced  by  recent  observations  to 
appeal  to  the  old  man  and  to  speak  to  Teresa 
more  plainly  than  ever. 

"  It  is  nice  living  up  there,"  said  she;  "but 
I  love  the  village." 

"No  doubt  you  do,"  said  he;  "but  one 
wants  a  change.  I  always  think  more  of  the 
village  when  I  have  been  longer  away  than 
usual." 

"Men  are  maybe  different,"  said  Teresa; 
"  I  have  no  wish  for  changes." 

"'Tis  good  to  be  content,"  said  he;  "I 
know  I  won't  be  content  till  I  have  yon  for 
my  own — my  very  own;"  and  then  he  kissed 
her  just  as  they  passed  the  tree  which  concealed 
Paolo.  She  blushed,  though  so  far  as  she 
knew  there  was  no  eye  to  see,  and  made  feint 
to  put  a  step's  space  between  them;  but,  recall- 
ing the  need  for  appearances,  she  drew  closer 
again  and  whispered — 

"  Women's  love  is  different  from  men's  love, 
I  think,  Carlo :  it  likes  to  wait  and  feel  each 
daj'  that  it  is  growing." 

"  It  may  be,"  said  Carlo;  "but  if  love  grows 
by  waiting,  how  have  we  ourselves  got  here?" 
and  he  smiled  at  bis  own  remark.  Teresa 
laughed  also;  and  they  two  went  on ;  and,  as 
they  disappeared,  Paolo  heard  the  silvery 
echoes  of  their  laughter.  He  crept  down  the 
hill  behind  them,  like  some  ominous  shadow. 
Instead  of  going  home,  he  opened  his  work- 
shop; and,  on  pretext  of  being  busy,  began  to 
work  again,  and  puffed  and  blew  and  ham- 
mered till  the  people  wondered  what  on  earth 
had  come  to  the  blacksmith.  Paolo  was  that 
night  doing  more  than  forging  vine-rods. 

Things  went  on  for  a  while  without  change; 
Paolo  saw  Teresa  occasionally:  for  sometimes 
he  would  go  to  the  inn  with  a  farmer  who  had 
come  to  the  village  to  settle  accounts  with  him; 
and  then  he  always  took  heart  of  grace,  for  he 
read  love  for  him  in  Teresa's  eyes  in  spite  of 
81 


322 


AT  THE  SHRINE. 


her  attempts  at  womanly  disguises.  But 
neither  to  her  nor  her  father  did  he  say  aught 
of  what  lay  so  near  his  heart. 

Months  passed  on  and  the  winter  came.  One 
evening  the  village  was  thrown  into  great  con- 
sternation by  the  arrival  of  one  of  Carlo's 
mules  that  had  evidently  broken  away  from  its 
master  in  some  great  danger.  As  on  that 
occasion  Carlo  was  carrying  commodities  of 
more  than  ordinary  value,  it  was  presumed 
that  he  had  been  carried  off  by  brigands;  and 
that  in  a  short  time  he  would  return.  But 
weeks  passed  on,  till  they  grew  to  months, 
and  still  no  word  of  Carlo.  Jacopoand  others, 
who  had  loved  and  respected  him,  had  caused 
all  sorts  of  inquiries  to  be  made,  and  had 
offered  rewards,  but  with  no  effect.  And 
gradually  Paolo  had  thrown  himself  into 
Jacopo's  way,  till  at  length  the  latter  was 
forced  to  own  that  Paolo  was  clever  and  dis- 
creet, and,  as  all  hope  of  Carlo's  return  had 
now  passed,  he  was  not  averse  to  his  becoming 
a  sweetheart  to  Teresa.  There  was  no  need 
for  a  long  wooing;  and  they  two  were  wedded 
within  a  year  and  a  half  from  the  time  that 
Paolo  had  sat  under  the  mulberry-tree  and 
muttered  his  curses. 

But,  in  spite  of  their  love  for  each  other, 
Paolo  and  Teresa  were  not  so  happy  as  they 
had  told  themselves  that  they  would  be.  There 
was  a  something  that  lay  between  them  un- 
spoken— a  something  only  guessed  at,  but 
dark  and  gloomy,  and  it  distressed  them. 
Paolo  would  mutter  in  his  sleep,  and  Carlo's 
name  could  be  clearly  heard  in  the  mutterings; 
for  now  Paolo  was  haunted  by  a  great  fear. 
The  robbers  whom  Paolo  had  bribed  with  all 
his  savings  of  these  half-dozen  years  to  rid 
him  of  a  rival,  had  done  more  than  he  had 
bargained  for, — they  had  compelled  Carlo  to 
go  with  them  in  a  very  adventurous  expedition 
which  was  not  so  successfully  carried  through 
as  most  of  their  enterprises;  and  he  was  seen 
and  described,  and  orders  were  sent  to  try 
and  apprehend  him  as  one  of  the  leaders 
of  the  brigands.  So  it  was  not  safe  for 
him,  as  he  conceived,  to  show  himself  in  the 
village;  and  when  he  heard  that  Paolo  had 
married  Teresa,  he  grimly  accepted  his  hard 
fate,  and  was  even  consoled  by  the  thought 
that  some  day  it  would  give  him  the  better 
chance  of  revenge.  And  his  chance  came 
sooner  than  he  had  hoped.  A  relative  of 
Paolo  in  the  Neapolitan  territory  had  died, 
leaving  him  his  money,  and  it  became  neces- 
sary that  Paolo  should  go  there  to  arrange 
matters.  He  performed  his  journey  safely,  and, 
having  realized  the  wealth  that  iiad  been  left 


him,  was  returning  home,  and  had  got  within 
a  few  miles  of  the  village,  when  he  was  set 
upon  by  the  brigands,  his  treasure  taken  from 
him,  and  he  himself  stabbed  in  various  places, 
and  left  for  dead  on  the  way.  He  certainly 
would  have  died  had  not  a  friendly  shepherd 
found  him  and  carried  him  to  the  nearest  farm- 
house, from  whence  he  was  in  time  taken 
home. 

He  was  so  seriously  wounded,  that  there 
was  no  hope  that  he  would  ever  be  able  to  go 
about  again.  And  as  he  lay  thus  faint  from 
pain  and  loss  of  blood,  a  child  was  born  to 
Teresa.  At  the  first  blush  she  knew  it  all — 
how  Paolo,  for  love  of  her,  had  terribly  wronged 
Carlo,  and  how  now  Carlo  had  revenged  him- 
self upon  them  both.  She  felt  that  she  had 
sinned  in  making  a  pretence  of  love  even  to 
please  her  father,  and  blamed  herself  sorely 
for  being  the  cause  of  all  the  evil  by  having 
been  deceitful.  The  thought  of  all  this  soon 
bred  a  change  in  her.  She  grew  serious  and 
thoughtful;  and  whilst  ministering  to  Paolo's 
needs,  would  speak  to  him  of  religion.  Xow, 
when  she  went  to  confession,  the  padre  did 
not  dismiss  her  with  the  old  style  of  words  ; 
but  would  say  to  her  tenderly  : 

"  My  daughter,  trials  like  these  are  hard  to 
bear,  and  little  sins  sometimes  bring  heavy 
burdens;  but  you  did  it  hoping  to  save  your 
father's  peace,  and  the  saints  will  not  judge 
you  so  hardly  as  you  judge  yourself.  Go  in 
peace,  and  forget  not  to  ask  help  of  our  sacred 
mother  Mary.  She  is  always  ready  to  succour 
such  as  you  are,  and  to  pour  the  oil  of  conso- 
lation into  such  wounds  as  yours." 

And  often  in  the  bright  Italian  afternoons, 
Teresa  was  to  be  seen,  accompanied  by  her 
little  sister  Beatrice,  carrying  her  baby  up  the 
valley  to  where,  at  the  ruined  convent,  there 
was  a  shrine,  as  there  is  in  many  remote  as 
well  as  in  the  most  frequented  corners  of 
Italy.  To  these  shrines  all  classes  of  people 
repair,  to  implore  the  intercession  of  the 
Madonna  for  themselves  and  those  who  are 
dear  to  them.  At  the  shrine  Teresa  bestowed 
simple  gifts,  and  begged  mercy  for  herself  and 
a  blessing  for  the  child  who  had  been  born 
to  her  in  such  sad  circumstances.  All  the 
people  in  the  district  knew  her  story,  and 
knew  her  habit  of  going  daily  to  the  convent 
shrine,  where  she  would  linger  for  hours.  They 
pitied  and  sympathized  with  her  sorrow,  for 
she  who  was  so  late  the  petted  beauty  had  now 
become  a  gentle  and  devout  woman. 

Carlo  escaped  to  France,  and  was  nevwr 
heard  of  again.  Paolo  was  crippled  for  life. 

.B.  ORMK. 


TRIFLES. 


323 


PEACE  AND  WAR. 

How  beautiful  this  night !  the  balmiest  sigh, 

Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  evening's  ear, 

Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 

That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.     Heaven's  ebon  vault, 

Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright, 

Through  which  the  moon's  unclouded  grandeur  rolls, 

Seems  like  a  canopy  which  Love  has  spread 

To  curtain  her  sleeping  world.     Yon  gentle  hills, 

Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow ; 

Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  depend, 

So  stainless,  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 

Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam ;  yon  castled  steep, 

Whose  banner  haugeth  o'er  the  time-worn  tower 

So  idly,  that  rapt  fancy  deemeth  it 

A  metaphor  of  peace ; — all  form  a  scene 

Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 

Her  soul  above  this  sphere  of  earthliness ; 

Where  silence  undisturbed  might  watch  alone, 

So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. — 

Ah  !  whence  yon  glare 

That  fires  the  arch  of  Heaven?— That  dark  red  smoke 
Blotting  the  silver  moon  ?    The  stars  are  quenched 
In  darkness,  and  the  pure  and  spangling  snow 
Gleams  faintly  through  the  gloom  that    gathers 

round ! 

Hark  to  that  roar,  whose  swift  and  deafening  paals 
In  countless  echoes  through  the  mountains  ring, 
Startling  pale  Midnight  on  her  starry  throne! 
Now  swells  the  intermingling  din  ;  the  jar, 
Frequent  and  frightful,  of  the  bursting  bomb ; 
The  falling  beam,  the  shriek,  the  groan,  the  shout, 
The  ceaseless  clangour,  and  the  rush  of  men 
Inebriate  with  rage : — loud,  and  more  loud 
The  discord  grows;  till  pale  death  shuts  the  scene, 
And  o'er  the  conqueror  and  the  conquered  draws 
His  cold  and  bloody  shroud. — Of  all  the  men 
Whom  day's  departing  beam  saw  blooming  there, 
In  proud  and  vigorous  health ;  of  all  the  hearts 
That  beat  with  anxious  life  at  sunset  there ; 
How  few  survive,  how  few  are  beating  now  1 
All  is  deep  silence,  like  the  fearful  calm 
That  slumbers  in  the  storm's  portentous  pause ; 
Save  when  the  frantic  wail  of  widow'd  love 
Comes  shuddering  on  the  blust,  or  the  f.iint  moan. 
With  which  some  soul  bursts  from  the  frame  of  clay, 
Wrapt  round  its  struggling  powers. 

The  gray  morn 

Dawns  on  the  mournful  scene  ;  the  sulphurous  smoke 
Before  the  icy  wini's  slow  rolls  away, 
And  the  bright  beams  of  frosty  morning  dance 
Along  the  spangling  snow.     There  tracks  of  blood 
Even  to  the  forest's  depth,  and  scattered  aims, 
And  lifeless  warriors,  whose  hard  lineaments 
Death's  self  could  change  not,  mark  the  dreadful 

path 

Of  the  on  (sallying  victors:  far  behind 
Black  ashes  note  where  their  proud  city  stood. 


|  Within  yon  forest  is  a  gloomy  glen — 
Each  tree  which  guards  its  darkness  from  the  day 
Waves  o'er  a  warrior's  tomb. 

PBRCT  BYSSHJS  SHELLEY. 


TRIFLES. 

[Hannah  More,  born  at  Stap!eton,  Gloucestershire, 
1745  ;  died  7th  Sei  tember,  1833.  One  of  the  most  pro- 
niinent  of  authors  at  the  beginning  of  this  century, 
yiie  was  the  daughter  of  a  schoolmaster,  and  at  tlu» 
a^-e  of  seventeen  she  published  her  first  work,  a  pastoral 
drama,  entitled  The  Search  after  Hap/tines*.  This  at- 
tracted considerable  attention,  and  in  the  following 
year  she  produced  The  Inflexible  Cajitive,  a  tragedy.  Two 
of  her  tragedies— Pmy  and  The  Fatal  Falsi  hood— wen 
brought  out  by  Garrick  at  Drury  Lane.  Johnson  greatly 
admired  her  works,  and  considered  her  the  best  of  the 
fern. ile  poets.  She  early  directed  her  genius  to  the  high 
task  of  conveying  religious  instruction  in  prose  and 
veise,  and  in  this  she  was  eminently  successful.  The 
following  couplets  will  show  how  epigrammatic  she 
could  be  at  times : — 

"  In  men  this  blunder  still  you  find, 
All  think  their  little  set  mankind." 

"Small  habits  well  pursued  betimes, 

May  reach  the  dignity  of  crimes." 
She  was  one  of  the  few  authors  who  have  made  a  for* 
time  by  their  craft.  She  made  about  £30.000  by  her 
writings,  and  bequeathed  a  third  of  that  sum  to  various 
charitable  institutions.  In  1782  appealed  her  Sacred 
Z>/-«masand  a  poem  entitled  Sensibility,  from  which  w» 
take  our  extract.] 

Since  trifles  make  the  sum  of  human  things, 

And  half  our  misery  from  our  foibles  springs; 

Since  life's  best  joys  consist  in  peace  and  ease. 

And  though  but  few  can  serve,  yet  all  may  please; 

O  let  the  ungentle  spirit  learn  from  hence, 

A  small  unkindness  is  a  great  offence. 

To  spread  large  bounties,  though  we  wish  in  vain, 

Yet  all  may  shun  the  guilt  of  giving  pain. 

To  bless  mankind  with  tides  of  flowing  wealth, 

With  rank  to  grace  them,  or  to  crown  with  health, 

Our  little  lot  denies;  yet  liberal  still, 

God  gives  its  counterpoise  to  every  ill ; 

Nor  let  us  murmur  at  our  stinted  powers, 

When  kindness,  love,  and  concord  may  be  ours. 

The  gift  of  minist'rinj  to  others'  ease, 

To  all  our  sons  impartial  Heaven  decrees; 

The  gentle  offices  of  patient  love, 

Beyond  all  flattery,  and  all  price  above ; 

The  mild  forbearance  at  a  brother's  fault, 

The  angry  word  suppress  d,  the  taunting  thought : 

Subduing  and  subdued  the  petty  strife, 

Which  clouds  the  colour  of  domestic  life; 

The  sober  comfort,  all  the  peace  which  spring* 

From  the  large  aggregate  of  little  things ; 

On  these  small  cares  of  daughter,  wife,  and  friend, 

The  almost  sacred  joys  of  Home  depend : 

There,  Sensibility,  thou  be<t  niay'st  reign, 

Home  is  thy  true  legitimate  domain. 


324 


ROUGE-ET-NOIR. 


ROUGE-ET-NOIR. 

([Horace  Smith,  born  in  London,  1779;  died  12th 
July,  184'J.  He  was  the  author  of  about  twenty  novels, 
the  best  known  of  which  are  Brambletye  House,  Jane 
Lomux,  and  The  Moneytd  Man.  In  conjunction  with 
his  brother  James,  he  wrote  the  Rejected  Addresses, 
which  obtained  great  popularity.  He  was  a  profuse 
miscellaneous  writer  of  prose  and  verse,  possessed  of 
much  humour.  The  following  sketch  is  from  Gaieties 
and  Gravities,  which  was  first  published  in  1826, 3  vola.j 

' '  Could  I  forget 

\Vhat  I  have  been,  I  might  the  better  bear 
What  I  am  destined  to.  I'm  not  the  first 
That  have  been  wretched — but  to  think  how  much 

I  have  been  happier ! " 

SOUTHERN. 

Never  shall  I  forget  that  accursed  27th  of 
September:  it  is  burned  in  upon  the  tablet  of 
my  memory ;  graven  in  letters  of  blood  upon 
my  heart.  I  look  back  to  it  with  a  strangely 
compounded  feeling  of  Horror  and  delight ;  of 
horror  at  the  black  series  of  wretched  days  and 
sleepless  nights  of  which  it  was  the  fatal  pre- 
cursor; of  delight  at  that  previous  career  of 
tranquillity  and  self-respect  which  it  was  des- 
tined to  terminate — alas,  for  ever! 

On  that  day  I  had  been  about  a  fortnight  in 
Paris,  and  in  passing  through  the  garden  of 
the  Palais  Royal,  had  stopped  to  admire  the 
beautiful  jet-d'eau  in  its  centre,  on  which  the 
sunbeams  were  falling  so  as  to  produce  a  small 
rainbow,  when  I  was  accosted  by  my  o  d  friend 

Major  E ,  of  the  Fusileers.  After  the  first 

surprises  and  salutations,  as  he  found  that  the 
business  of  procuring  apartments  and  settling 
my  family  had  prevented  my  seeing  many  of 
the  Parisian  lions,  he  offered  himself  aa  my 
cicerone,  proposing  that  we  should  begin  by 
making  the  circuit  of  the  building  that  sur- 
rounded us.  With  its  history  and  the  remark- 
able events  of  which  it  had  been  the  scene  I 
was  already  conversant;  but  of  its  detail  and 
appropriation,  which,  as  he  assured  me,  consti- 
tuted its  sole  interest  in  the  eyes  of  the  Parisians, 
I  was  completely  ignorant. 

After  taking  a  cursory  view  of  most  of  the 
sights  above  ground  in  this  multifarious  pile, 
I  was  conducted  to  some  of  its  subterraneous 
wonders, — to  the  Cafe  du  Sauvage,  where  a 
man  is  hired  for  six  francs  a  night  to  personate 
that  character,  by  beating  a  great  drum  with 
all  the  grinning,  ranting,  and  raving  of  a 
madman; — to  the  Cafe  des  Aveugles,  whose 
numerous  orchestra  is  entirely  composed  of 
blind  men  and  women; — and  to  the  Cafe  des 


Varietes,  whose  small  theatre,  as  well  as  itg 
saloons  and  labyrinths,  are  haunted  by  a  set 
of  sirens  not  less  dangerous  than  the  nympha 
who  assailed  Ulysses.  Emerging  from  these 
haunts,  we  found  that  a  heavy  shower  was 
falling;  and  while  we  paraded  once  more  the 
stone  gallery,  my  friend  suddenly  exclaimed, 
as  his  eye  fell  upon  the  numbers  of  the  houses 
— "one  hundred  and  fifty-four!  positively  we 
are  going  away  without  visiting  one  of  the — 
gaming-houses  was  the  meaning  of  the  term 
he  employed,  though  he  expressed  it  by  a  word 
that  the  fashionable  preacher  never  mentioned 
to  "ears  polite." — "  I  have  never  yet  entered," 
said  I,  "a  pandemonium  of  this  sort,  and  I 
never  will: — I  refrain  from  it  upon  principle; 
— 'Principiis  obsta;'  I  am  of  Dr.  Johnson's 
temperament,  I  can  practise  abstinence,  but 
not  temperance;  and  everybody  knows  that 
prevention  is  better  than  cure." — "Do  you 

remember,"  replied  E ,  "what  the  same 

Dr.  Johnson  said  to  Boswell — 'My  dear  sir, 
clear  your  mind  of  cant;'  I  do  no-t  ask  you  to 
play;  but  you  must  have  often  read,  when  you 
were  a  good  little  boy,  that  'vice  to  be  hated 
needs  but  to  be  seen,'  and  cannot  have  forgot- 
ten that  the  Spartans  sometimes  made  their 
slaves  drunk  and  showed  them  to  their  children 
to  inculcate  sobriety.  Love  of  virtue  is  best 
secured  by  a  hatred  of  its  opposite :  to  hate  it 
you  must  see  it :  besides,  a  man  of  the  world 
should  see  everything. " — "But  it  is  so  disre- 
putable," I  rejoined. — "  How  completely  John 

Bullish!"  exclaimed  E .     "Disreputable! 

why  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  an  establish- 
ment recognized,  regulated,  and  taxed  by  the 
government,  the  upholders  of  religion  and 
social  order,  who  annually  derive  six  millions 
of  francs  from  this  source  of  revenue;  and  as 
to  the  company,  I  promise  you  that  you  shall 
encounter  men  of  the  first  respectability,  of 
all  sects  and  parties,  for  in  France  every  one 
gambles  at  these  saloons, — except  the  devotees, 
and  they  play  at  home." — He  took  my  arm, 
and  I  walked  upstairs  with  him,  merely  ejacu- 
lating as  we  reached  the  door — "Mind,  I  don't 
play." 

Entering  an  ante-room,  we  were  received  by 
two  or  three  servants,  who  took  our  sticks  and 
hats,  for  which  we  received  tickets,  and  by  the 
number  suspended  around  I  perceived  that 
there  was  a  tolerably  numerous  attendance 
within.  Roulette  was  the  game  to  which  the 
first  chamber  was  dedicated.  In  the  middle 
of  a  long  green  table  was  a  circular  excavation, 
resembling  a  large  gilt  basin,  in  whose  centre 
was  a  rotatory  apparatus  turning  an  ivory  ball 
in  a  groove,  which,  after  sundry  gyrations, 


ROUGE-ET-NOIR. 


325 


descended  to  the  bottom  of  the  basin  where 
there  was  a  round  of  little  numbered  compart- 
ments or  pigeon-holes,  into  one  of  which  it 
finally  settled,  when  the  number  was  proclaimed 
aloud.    Beside  this  apparatus  there  was  painted 
on  the  green  baize  a  table  of  various  successive 
numbers,  with  divisions  for  odd  and  even,  &c., 
on  which  the  players  deposited  their  various 
stakes.     He  who  was  in  the  compartment  of  j 
ihe  proclaimed  number  was  a  winner,  and  if 
he  had  singled  out  that  individual  one,  which 
of  course  was  of  very  rare  occurrence,  his  deposit 
was  doubled  I  know  not  how  many  times.  ' 
The  odd  or  even  declared  their  own  fate :  they  ' 
were  lost  or  doubled.     This  altar  of  chance  , 
had  but  few  votaries,  and  merely  stopping  a 
moment  to  admire  the  handsome  decorations 
of  the  room  we  passed  on  into  the  next. 

"This,"  whispered  my  companion,  for  there  ' 
was  a  dead  silence  in  the  apartment,  although 
the  long  table  was  entirely  surrounded  by 
people  playing, — "this  is  only  the  silver  room; 
you  may  deposit  here  as  low  as  a  five-franc 
piece:  let  us  pass  on  to  the  next,  where  none 
play  but  those  who  will  risk  bank-notes  or 
gold. "  Casting  a  passing  glance  at  these  com- 
paratively humble  gamesters,  who  were,  how- 
ever, all  too  deeply  absorbed  to  move  their 
eyes  from  the  cards,  I  followed  my  conductor 
into  the  sanctuary  of  the  gilded  Mammon. 

Here  was  a  Rouge-et-Noir  table,  exactly 
like  the  one  I  had  just  quitted.  In  its  centre 
was  a  profuse  display  of  gold  in  bowls  and 
rouleaus,  with  thick  piles  of  bank-notes,  on 
either  side  of  which  sat  a  partner  of  the  bank 
and  an  assistant,  the  dragon  guards  of  this 
Hesperian  fruit.  An  oblong  square,  painted 
on  each  end  of  the  green  table,  exhibited  three 
divisions,  one  for  Rouge,  another  for  Noir,  and  : 
the  centre  was  for  the  stakes  of  those  who 
speculated  upon  the  colour  of  the  first  and  last 
card,  with  other  ramifications  of  the  art  which 
it  would  be  tedious  to  describe.  Not  one  of 
the  chairs  around  the  table  was  unoccupied, 
and  I  observed  that  each  banker  and  assistant 
was  provided  with  a  rateau,  or  rake,  somewhat 
resembling  a  garden  hoe,  several  of  which  were 
also  dispersed  about,  that  the  respective  winners 
might  withdraw  the  gold  without  the  objection-  | 
able  intervention  of  fingers.  When  the  stakes 
are  all  deposited,  the  dealer,  one  of  the  bankers 
in  the  centre,  cries  out — "Le  jeu  est  fait," 
after  which  nothing  can  be  added  or  withdrawn; 
and  then  taking  a  packet  of  cards  from  a 
basket  full  before  him,  he  proceeds  to  deal. 
Thirty-one  is  the  number  of  the  game:  the 
colour  of  the  first  card  determines  whether  the 
first  row  be  black  or  red :  the  dealer  turns  up 


till  the  numbers  on  the  cards  exceed  thirty- 
one,  when  he  lays  down  a  second  row  in  the 
same  manner,  and  whichever  is  nearest  to  that 
amount  is  the  winning  row.  If  both  come  to 
the  same,  he  cries  "Apres,"  and  recommences 
with  fresh  cards;  but  if  each  division  should 
turn  up  thirty -one,  the  bank  takes  half  of  the 
whole  money  deposited,  as  a  forfeit  from  the 
players.  In  this  consists  their  certain  profit, 
which  has  been  estimated  at  ten  per  cent,  upon 
the  total  stakes.  If  the  red  loses,  the  banker 
on  that  side  rakes  all  the  deposits  into  his 
treasury;  if  it  wins,  he  throws  down  the  num- 
ber of  napoleons  or  notes  necessary  to  cover 
the  lodgments  made  by  the  players,  each  one 
of  whom  rakes  off  his  prize,  or  leaves  it  for  a 

fresh  venture.     E explained  to  me  the 

functions  of  the  different  members  of  the  es- 
tablishment— the  inspector,  the  croupier,  the 
tailleur,  the  messieurs  de  la  chambre,  &c. ,  and 
also  the  meaning  of  the  ruled  card  and  pins 
which  every  one  held  before  him,  consulting 
it  with  the  greatest  intenseness,  and  occasion- 
ally calling  to  the  people  in  attendance  for  a 
fresh  supply.  This  horoscope  was  divided  by 
perpendicular  lines  into  columns,  headed  with 
an  alternate  11.  and  N.  for  Rouge  and  Noir, 
and  the  pin  is  employed  to  perforate  the  card 
as  each  colour  wins,  as  a  ground-work  for 
establishing  some  calculation  in  that  elaborate 
delusion  termed  the  doctrine  of  chances.  Some, 
having  several  of  these  records  before  them, 
closely  pierced  all  over,  were  summing  up  the 
results  upon  paper,  as  if  determined  to  play  a 
game  of  chance  without  leaving  anything  to 
hazard;  and  none  seemed  willing  to  adventure 
without  having  some  species  of  sanction  from 
these  sibylline  leaves. 

An  involuntary  sickness  and  loathing  of 
heart  came  over  me  as  I  contemplated  this 
scene,  and  observed  the  sofas  in  an  adjoining 
room,  which  the  Parisians,  who  turn  everything 
into  a  joke,  have  christened  "the  hospital  for 
the  wounded."  There,  thought  I  to  myself, 
many  a  wretch  has  thrown  himself  down  in 
anguish  and  despair  of  soul,  cursing  himself 
and  the  world  with  fearful  imprecations,  or 
blaspheming  in  that  silent  bitterness  of  spirit 
which  is  more  terrific  than  words.  I  contrasted 
the  gaudy  decorations  and  pannelled  mirrors 
that  surrounded  me  with  the  smoky  and 
blackened  ceiling,  sad  evidence  of  the  nocturnal 
lamps  lighted  up  at  the  shrine  of  this  Baal, 
and  of  the  unhallowed  worship  prosecuted 
through  the  livelong  night.  Turning  to  the 
window,  I  beheld  the  sun  shining  from  the 
bright  blue  sky,  the  rain  was  over,  the  birds 
were  singing  in  the  trees,  and  the  loaves  flutter- 


526 


ROUGE-ET-NOIR. 


ing  in  the  wind;  the  external  gaiety  giving 
the  character  of  an  appalling  antithesis  to  the 
painful  silence,  immovable  attitudes,  and  spell- 
bound looks  of  the  care-worn  figures  within. 
One  man,  a  German,  was  contending  against 
a  run  of  ill-luck  with  a  dogged  obstinacy  that 
was  obviously  making  deep  inroads  upon  his 
purse  and  his  peace;  for  though  his  face  was 
invisible  from  being  bent  over  his  perforated 
card,  the  drops  of  perspiration  standing  upon 
his  forehead  betrayed  the  inward  agitation. 
All  the  losers  were  struggling  to  suppress 
emotions  which  still  revealed  themselves  by 
the  working  of  some  disobedient  muscle,  the 
compression  of  the  lips,  the  sardonic  grin,  or 
the  glaring  wrath  of  the  eye;  while  the  winners 
belied  their  assumed  indifference  by  flushed 
cheeks  and  an  expression  of  anxious  triumph. 
Two  or  three  forlorn  operators,  who  had  been 
cleaned  out,  as  the  phrase  is,  and  condemned 
to  idleness,  were  eying  their  more  fortunate 
neighbours  with  a  leer  of  malignant  envy; 
while  the  bankers  and  their  assistants,  in  the 
certainty  of  their  profitable  trade,  exhibited  a 
calm  and  watchful  cunning,  though  their  feat- 
ures, pale  and  sodden,  betrayed  the  effect  of 
confinement,  heated  rooms,  and  midnight 

vigils.    E informed  me  that  the  frequenters 

of  these  houses  were  authorized  to  call  for 
refreshments  of  any  description,  but  no  one 
availed  himself  of  the  privilege;  the  "auri  sacra 
fames,"  the  pervading  appetite  of  the  place, 
had  swallowed  up  every  other.  The  very 
thought  revolted  me.  What !  eat  and  drink  in 
this  arena  of  the  hateful  passions;  in  this  fatal 
room,  from  which  many  a  suicide  has  rushed 
out  to  grasp  the  self-destroying  pistol,  or  plunge 
into  the  darkness  of  the  wave!  in  this  room, 
which  is  denounced  to  Heaven  by  the  widow's 
tears  and  the  orphan's  maledictions!  Revolv- 
ing these  thoughts  in  my  mind,  I  surveyed 
once  more  the  faces  before  me,  and  could  not 
help  exclaiming — What  a  hideous  study  of 
human  nature! 

"As  we  have  employed  so  much  time,"  said 

E ,  "in  taking  the  latitude,  or  rather  the 

longitude  of  these  various  phizzes,  we  shall  be 
expected  to  venture  something:  I  will  throw 
down  a  napoleon,  as  a  sop  to  Cerberus,  and 
will  then  convoy  you  home." — "Nay,"  replied 
I,  "it  was  for  my  instruction  we  came  hither; 
the  lesson  I  have  received  is  well  worth  the 
money,  so  put  down  this  piece  of  gold  and  let 
us  begone." — "  Let  us  at  least  wait  till  we  have 
lost  it,"  he  resumed;  "and  in  the  meantime 
we  will  take  our  places  at  the  table. "  I  felt 
that  I  blushed  as  I  sat  down,  and  was  about 
to  deposit  my  offering  hap-hazard,  when  my 


companion  stopped  my  hand,  and,  borrowing 
a  perforated  card,  bade  me  remark,  that  the 
red  and  black  had  zigzagged,  or  won  alter- 
nately for  fourteen  times;  and  that  there  had 
subsequently  been  a  long  run  upon  the  black, 
which  would  now  probably  cross  over  to  the 
other  colour;  from  all  which  premises  he 
deduced  that  I  should  venture  upon  the  red  : 
which  I  accordingly  did.  Sir  Balaam's  devil, 
who  "now  tempts  by  making  rich,  not  making 
poor,"  was,  I  verily  believe,  hovering  over  my 
devoted  head  at  that  instant;  my  deposit  was 
doubled,  and  I  was  preparing  to  decamp  with 
my  two  naps,  when  my  adviser  insisted  upon 
my  not  baulking  my  luck,  as  there  would 
probably  be  a  run  upon  the  red,  and  I  suffered 
my  stake  to  remain,  and  go  on  doubling  until 
I  had  won  ten  or  twelve  times  in  succession. 

"Now," cried  E ,  "I  should  advise  you  to 

pocket  the  affront,  and  be  satisfied. "  Adopting 
his  counsel,  I  could  hardly  believe  his  assertion, 
or  my  own  eyes,  when  he  handed  me  over 
bank-notes  to  the  amount  of  twenty  thousand 
francs,  observing  that  I  had  made  a  tolerably 
successful  d&mt  for  a  beginner. 

Returning  home  in  some  perturbation  and 
astonishment  of  mind,  I  resolved  to  prepare  a 
little  surprise  for  my  wife;  and  spreading  the 
bank-notes  upon  the  table  with  as  much  dis- 
play as  possible,  I  told  her,  upon  her  entering 
the  room,  how  I  had  won  them;  and  inquiring 
whether  Aladdin  with  his  wonderful  lamp 
could  have  spent  two  or  three  hours  more 
profitably,  I  stated  my  intention  of  appropri- 
ating a  portion  of  it  to  her  use  in  the  purchase 
of  a  handsome  birth-day  present.  In  a  moment 
the  blood  rushed  to  her  face,  and  as  quickly 
receded,  leaving  it  of  an  ashy  paleness,  when 
she  spurned  the  notes  from  her,  exclaiming 
with  a  solemn  terror — "  I  would  as  soon  touch 
the  forty  pieces  of  silver  for  which  Judas 
betrayed  his  Master."  Her  penetrating  head 
instantly  saw  the  danger  to  which  I  had  ex- 
posed myself,  and  her  fond  heart  as  quickly 
gave  the  alarm  to  her  feelings;  but  in  a  few 
seconds  she  threw  her  arms  around  me,  and 
ejaculated,  as  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheek — 
"Forgive  me,  my  dear  Charles,  pardon  ray 
vehemence,  my  ingratitude;  I  have  a  present 
to  ask,  a  boon  to  implore — promise  that  you 
will  grant  it  me." — "Most  willingly,"  I  re- 
joined, "if  it  be  in  my  power." — "Give  me 
then  your  pledge,  never  to  play  again." — 
"Cheerfully,"  continued  I,  for  I  had  already 
formed  that  resolution.  She  kissed  me  with 
many  affectionate  thanks,  adding  that  I  had 
made  her  qompletely  happy.  I  believe  it,  far 
at  that  moment  I  felt  so  myself. 


ROUGE-ET-NOIR. 


327 


Many  men  who  are  candid  and  upright  in 
arguing  with  others,  are  the  most  faithless  and 
Jesuitical  of  casuists  in  chopping  logic  with 
themselves.  Let  no  one  trust  his  head  in  a 
contest  with  the  heart;  the  former,  suppressing 
or  perverting  whatever  is  disagreeable  to  the 
latter,  will  assume  a  demure  and  sincere  con- 
viction, while  it  has  all  along  been  playing 
booty,  and  furnishing  weapons  to  its  adversary. 
The  will  must  be  honest  if  we  wish  the  judg- 
ment to  be  so.  A  tormenting  itch  for  follow-  j 
ing  up  my  good  luck,  as  I  termed  it,  set  me  i 
upon  devising  excuses  for  violating  my  pledge  ! 
to  my  wife,  and  no  shuffling  or  quibbling  was  ! 
too  contemptible  for  my  purpose.  I  had  pro- 
mised never  to  play  again — "at  that  house," 
or  if  I  had  not  actually  said  so,  I  meant  to  say 
so:  there  could  be  no  forfeiture  of  my  word, 
therefore,  if  I  went  to  another.  Miserable 
sophistry!  yet,  wretched  as  it  was,  it  satisfied 
my  conscience  for  the  moment, — so  easily  is  a 
weak  man  deluded  into  criminal  indulgence.  ' 
Fortified  with  such  valid  arguments,  I  made 
my  debut  at  the  Salon  des  Etrangers,  and  after 
a  two  hours'  sitting,  had  the  singular  good  luck 
to  return  home  a  winner  of  nearly  as  much  as 
I  had  gained  on  the  first  day.  Success  for 
once  made  me  moderate;  in  the  humility  of 
my  prosperous  play,  I  resolved  only  to  continue 
till  I  had  won  ten  thousand  pounds,  when  I 
would  communicate  my  adventures  to  my  wife 
with  a  solemn  abjuration  of  the  pursuit  in 
future;  and  as  I  considered  myself  in  posses- 
sion of  the  certain  secret  of  winning  whatever 
I  pleased,  I  took  credit  to  myself  for  my  ex- 
treme moderation.  From  Frascati,  the  scene 
of  my  third  attempt,  by  a  lucky,  or  rather 
unlucky  fatality,  which  my  subsequent  experi- 
ence only  renders  the  more  wonderful,  I  retired 
with  a  sum  exceeding  the  whole  of  my  previous 
profits,  when,  like  the  tiger  who  is  rendered 
insatiate  by  the  taste  of  blood,  I  instantly 
became  ravenous  for  larger  riches;  and  already  \ 
repenting  the  paltry  limitation  of  the  day  j 
before,  determined  on  proceeding  until  I  had 
doubled  its  amount.  Another  day's  luck,  and 
even  this  would  have  been  spurned,  for  neither 
Johnson's  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  nor  Mas- 
singer's  Luke,  nor  Pope's  Sir  Balaam,  under- 
went a  more  rapid  development  of  the  latent 
devils  of  ambition.  Indistinct  visions  of  gran- 
deur floated  before  my  eyes;  my  senses  already 
seemed  to  be  steeped  in  a  vague  magnificence; 
and  after  hesitating,  in  a  sort  of  waking  dream, 
between  Wanstead  House  and  Fonthill,  one  of 
which  I  held  to  be  too  near,  and  the  other  too 
distant  from  London,  I  dwelt  complacently  on 
the  idea  of  building  a  mansion  at  some  inter- 


mediate station,  which  should  surpass  the 
splendour  of  both.  Sleep  presenting  to  me  the 
same  images  through  a  magnifying-glass,  I 
went  forth  next  morning  to  the  accomplish- 
ment of  my  destiny  with  an  exaltation  of  mind 
little  short  of  delirium. 

Weak  and  wicked  reveries!  a  single  turn  of 
Fortune's  wheel  reduced  me,  not  to  reason,  but 
to  an  opposite  extreme  of  mortification  and  de- 
spondence. A  run  of  ill-luck  swept  away  in 
one  hour  more  than  half  my  gains,  and  unfor- 
tunately losing  my  temper  still  faster  than  my 
money,  I  kept  doubling  my  stakes  in  the 
blindness  of  my  rage,  and  quitted  the  table  at 
night,  not  only  lightened  of  all  my  suddenly 
acquired  wealth,  but  loser  of  a  considerable 
sum  besides.  I  could  now  judge  by  experience 
of  the  bitterness  of  soul  that  I  had  lately  in- 
flicted upon  those  who  had  lost  what  I  had  won, 
and  inwardly  cursed  the  pursuit  whose  grati- 
fications could  only  spring  from  the  miseries 
of  others;  but  so  far  from  abandoning  this  in- 
evitable see-saw  of  wretchedness,  I  felt  as  if  I 
had  been  defrauded  of  my  just  property,  and 
burned  with  the  desire  of  taking  my  revenge. 
The  heart-sickening  detail  of  my  infirmity, 
my  reverses,  and  my  misery,  need  not  be  fol- 
lowed up.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  a  passion, 
a  fury,  an  actual  frenzy  of  play  absorbed 
every  faculty  of  my  soul ;  mine  was  worse 
than  a  Promethean  fate;  I  was  gnawed  and  de- 
voured by  an  inward  fire  which  nothing  could 
allay.  Alas!  not  even  poverty  and  the  want  of 
materials  could  quench  it.  In  my  career  of 
prosperity,  I  felt  not  the  fraud  I  was  practising 
upon  my  wife,  for  I  meant  to  make  my  peace 
with  ten  or  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  my 
hand,  and  a  sincere  renunciation  of  gaming  in 
my  heart;  but  now  that  I  was  bringing  ruin 
upon  her  and  my  children,  the  sense  of  my 
falsehood  and  treachery  embitteringthe  anguish 
of  my  losses,  plunged  me  into  unutterable  re- 
morse and  agony  of  soul.  Still  I  wanted  courage 
to  make  the  fatal  revelation,  and  at  last  only 
imparted  it  to  her  in  the  cowardice  of  impend- 
ing disgrace. 

Madame  Deshoulieres  says  very  truly,  that 
gamesters  begin  by  being  dupes  and  end  by 
being  knaves ;  and  I  am  about  to  confirm  it  by 
an  avowal  to  which  nothing  should  have  im- 
pelled me  but  the  hope  of  deterring  others  by 
an  exposure  of  my  own  delinquency.  A  female 
relation  had  remitted  me  seven  hundred  pounds 
to  purchase  into  the  French  funds,  with  which 
sum  in  my  pocket  I  unfortunately  called  at  the 
Salon  des  Etrangers  in  my  way  to  the  stock- 
broker's, and  my  evil  genius  suggesting  to  me 
that  there  was  a  glorious  opportunity  of  re- 


328 


KOUGE-ET-NOIR. 


covering  my  heavy  losses,  I  snatched  the  notes 
from  my  pocket,  threw  them  on  the  table  just 

before  the  dealer  began- -and  lost!  Stunned 

by  the  blow,  I  went  home  in  a  state  of  calm 
despair,  communicated  the  whole  to  my  wife 
in  as  few  words  as  possible,  and  ended  by  de- 
claring that  she  was  a  beggar,  and  her  husband 
disgraced  for  ever.  ' '  Not  yet,  my  dear  Charles, " 
replied  the  generous  woman,  her  eyes  beaming 
with  an  affectionate  forgiveness, — "not  yet; 
we  may  still  exclaim  with  the  French  king 
after  the  battle  of  Pavia,  We  have  lost  every- 
thing but  our  honour;  and  while  we  retain 
that,  our  losses  are  but  as  a  grain  of  sand.  We 
may  be  depressed  by  fortune,  but  we  can  only 
be  disgraced  by  ourselves.  As  to  this  seven 
hundred  pounds — take  myjewels — they  will 
sell  for  more  than  is  required ;  and  if  our  pre- 
sent misfortunes  induce  you  to  fly  from  Paris, 
and  abandon  this  fatal  pursuit,  they  will  as- 
suredly become  the  greatest  blessings  of  our 
life."  ' 

No  reproach  ever  passed  her  lips,  or  lingered 
in  her  eye  :  nor  did  I  fail  to  observe  the  deli- 
cacy which,  mingling  up  her  own  fate  with 
mine,  strove  to  soothe  my  feelings,  by  disguis- 
ing my  individual  guilt  under  the  cloak  of  a 
joint  misfortune.  Noble-minded  woman ! 
Mczentius  himself  could  not  have  devised  a 
more  cruel  fate  than  to  tie  thee  to  a  soul  so 
dead  to  shame,  and  so  defunct  in  gratitude  as 
mine! 

Will  not  the  reader  loathe  and  detest  me, 
even  worse  than  I  do  myself,  when  I  inform 
him,  that  in  return  for  all  this  magnanimity  I 
had  the  detestable  baseness  to  linger  in  Paris, 
to  haunt  the  gaming-table,  to  venture  the 
wretched  drainings  of  my  purse  in  the  silver 
room,  to  become  an  habitual  borrower  of 
paltry  sums  under  pledges  of  repayment  which 
I  knew  I  had  not  the  means  of  redeeming,  and 
to  submit  tamely  to  the  indignity  of  palpable 
cuts  from  my  acquaintance  in  the  public 
streets  ?  From  frequently  encountering  at  the 
saloons,  I  had  formed  a  slight  friendship  with 

Lord  T ,  Lord  F /Sir  G W , 

Colonel  T ,  and  particularly  with  poor 

S 1,  before  he  had  consummated  the  ruin 

of  his  fine  fortune,  and  debilitated  his  frame 
by  paralysis  brought  on  by  anxiety;  and  I 
was  upon  terms  of  intimacy  with  others  of  my 
countrymen,  who  with  various  success,  but  much 
more  ample  means  than  myself,  were  making 
offerings  to  the  demon  of  Roiiyeet  Noir. 
Should  this  brief  memoir  fall  beneath  the  eye 
of  any  of  my  quondam  friends,  they  may  not 
impossibly  derive  benefit  from  its  perusal:  at 
all  events,  they  may  be  pleased  to  know  that 


I  have  not  forgotten  their  kindnesses.  I  am 
aware  that  I  abused  their  assistance,  and  wore 
out  their  patience ;  but  I  never  anticipated  the 
horror  to  which  the  exhaustion  of  my  own 
means,  and  the  inability  to  extort  more  from 
others,  would  reduce  me.  The  anguish  of  my 
losses,  the  misery  of  my  degradation,  the  agony 
of  mind  with  which  I  reflected  upon  my  im- 
poverished wife  and  family,  were  nothing,  ab- 
solutely nothing,  compared  to  the  racking  tor- 
ment of  being  compelled  to  refrain  from  gamb- 
ling. It  sounds  incredible,  but  it  is  strictly 
true.  To  sit  at  the  table  with  empty  pockets 
and  to  see  others  playing,  was  absolutely  in- 
supportable. I  envied  even  the  heaviest  losers 
— could  I  have  found  an  antagonist,  I  would 
have  gambled  for  an  eye,  an  arm,  a  leg,  for 
life  itself.  A  thousand  devils  seemed  to  be 
gnawing  at  my  heart — I  believed  I  was  mad — 
I  even  hope  I  was. 

Yes :  I  have  tasked  myself  to  detail  my 
moral  degradation  and  utter  prostration  of 
character,  with  a  fidelity  worthy  of  Rousseau 
himself,  and  I  feel  it  a  duty  not  to  shrink 
from  my  complete  exposure.  After  a  night 
passed  in  the  state  of  mind  I  have  been  de- 
scribing, in  one  of  those  haunts  which  I  was 
justly  entitled  to  denominate  a  hell,  I  wan- 
dered out  at  daybreak  towards  the  Pont  de 
Jena,  as  if  I  could  cool  my  parched  lips  and 
burning  brain  by  the  heavy  shower  that  was 
then  falling.  As  the  dripping  rustics  passed 
me  on  their  market-horses,  singing  and  whist- 
ling, their  happiness,  seeming  to  be  a  mockery 
of  my  wretchedness,  filled  me  with  a  malig- 
nant rage.  By  the  time  I  had  reached  the 
bridge  the  rain  had  ceased,  the  rising  sun, 
glancing  upon  the  river,  threw  a  bloom  over  the 
woods  in  the  direction  of  Sevres  and  St.  Cloud, 
and  the  birds  were  piping  in  the  air.  Ever  a 
passionate  admirer  of  Nature,  her  charms  stole 
me  for  a  moment  from  myself,  but  presently 
my  thoughts  reverting  from  the  heaven  with- 
out to  the  hell  within,  I  gnashed  my  teeth, 
and  fell  back  into  a  double  bitterness  and 
despair  of  soul. 

I  have  always  been  a  believer  in  sudden  and 
irresistible  impulses ;  an  idea  which  will  not 
appear  ridiculous  to  those  who  are  conversant 
with  the  records  of  crime.  A  portrait  of  Sarah 
Malcolm  the  murderess,  which  I  had  wen 
many  years  ago  in  the  possession  of  Lord  Mul- 
grave,  leading  me  to  the  perusal  of  her  trial 
and  execution  in  the  Newgate  Calendar,  in- 
duced me  to  give  perfect  credit  to  the  averment, 
that  the  idea  of  the  crime  came  suddenly  into 
her  head  without  the  least  solicitation,  and 
that  she  felt  driven  forward  to  its  accomplish- 


ON  THE  INSTABILITY  OF  YOUTH. 


329 


ment  by  some  invisible  power.  Similar 
declarations  from  many  other  offenders  offer 
abundant  confirmation  of  the  same  fact ;  and 
it  will  be  in  the  recollection  of  many,  that  the 
murderer  of  Mrs.  Bonar  at  Chiselhurst  re- 
peatedly declared  that  he  had  never  dreamed  of 
the  enormity  ten  minutes  before  its  commis- 
sion, but  that  the  thought  suddenly  rushed 
into  his  mii\d,  and  pushed  him  forward  to  the 
bloody  deed.  Many  people  cannot  look  over  a 
precipice  without  feeling  tempted  to  throw 
themselves  down ;  I  know  a  most  affectionate 
father  who  never  approaches  a  window  with 
his  infant  child  without  being  haunted  by 
solicitations  to  cast  it  into  the  street ;  and 
a  gentleman  of  unimpeachable  honour,  who 
if  he  happens,  in  walking  the  highway,  to 
see  a  note-case  or  handkerchief  emerging 
from  a  passenger's  pocket,  is  obliged  to  stop 
short  or  cross  over  the  way,  so  vehemently 
does  he  feel  impelled  to  withdraw  them. 
These  "toys  of  desperation,"  generated  in  the 
giddiness  of  the  mind  at  the  bare  imagina- 
tion of  any  horror,  drive  it  to  commit  the 
reality  as  a  relief  from  the  fearful  vision, 
upon  the  same  principle  that  delinquents 
voluntarily  deliver  themselves  up  to  justice, 
because  death  itself  is  less  intolerable  than  the 
fear  of  it.  Let  it  not  be  imagined  that  I  am 
seeking  to  screen  any  of  these  unhappy  men 
from  the  consequences  of  their  hallucination ; 
I  am  merely  asserting  a  singular  property  of 
the  mind,  of  which  I  myself  am  about  to 
record  a  frightful  confirmation. 

Standing  on  the  bridge,  and  turning  away 
my  looks  from  the  landscape  in  that  despair  of 
heart  which  I  have  described,  my  downcast 
eyes  fell  upon  the  waters  gliding  placidly 
beneath  me.  They  seemed  to  invite  me  to 
quench  the  burning  fire  with  which  I  was  con- 
sumed ,-  the  river  whispered  to  me  with  a  dis- 
tinct utterance  that  peace  and  oblivion  were  to 
be  found  in  its  Lethean  bed  : — every  muscle  of 
iny  body  was  animated  by  an  instant  and  in- 
superable impulse ;  and  within  half  a  minute 
from  its  first  maddening  sensation,  I  had 
climbed  over  the  parapet,  and  plunged  head- 
long into  the  water  ! — The  gushing  of  waves  in 
my  ears,  and  the  rapid  flashing  of  innumerable 
lights  before  my  eyes,  are  the  last  impressions 
I  recollect.  Into  the  circumstances  of  my  pre- 
servation I  never  had  the  heart  to  inquire: 
when  consciousness  revisited  me,  I  found 
myself  lying  upon  my  own  bed  with  my  wife 
weeping  beside  me,  though  she  instantly 
assumed  a  cheerful  look,  and  told  me  that  I 
had  met  with  a  dreadful  accident,  having 
fallen  into  the  river  when  leaning  over  to 


examine  some  object  beneath.  That  she  knows 
the  whole  truth  I  am  perfectly  convinced,  but 
we  scrupulously  avoid  the  subject,  by  an  un- 
derstood, though  unexpressed  compact.  It  is 
added  in  her  mind  to  the  long  catalogue  of  my 
offences,  never  to  be  alluded  to,  and,  alas! 
never  to  be  forgotten.  She  left  my  bedside  for 
a  moment  to  return  with  my  children,  who 
rushed  up  to  me  with  a  cry  of  joy  ;  and  as  they 
contended  for  the  first  kiss,  and  inquired  after 
my  health  with  glistening  eyes,  the  cruelty, 
the  atrocity  of  my  cowardly  attempt  struck 
with  a  withering  remorse  upon  my  heart. 


ON   THE   INSTABILITY  OF  YOUTH. 

[Thomas,  second  Lord  Vaux,  died  about  1560.  All 
that  is  known  of  his  life  is  that  he  attended  Cardinal 
Wolsey  on  his  embassy  to  Francis  I.,  received  the  order 
of  the  Hath  at  the  coronation  of  Anne  lioleyn.  and  \v.  a 
sometime  captain  of  the  island  of  Jersey.  His  princi- 
pal pieces  are  found  in  the  Pa/'adise  of  Dinmtit  Devis'i, 
1576;  and  one  of  hi*  songs  was  used  by  Shakspeare  fur 
the  gravedigger  ill  Hamlet,  act  v.  scene  1.] 

When  I  look  back,  and  in  myself  behold 
The  wandering  ways  that  youth  could  not  descry, 
And  mark  the  fearful  course  that  \outh  did  hold, 
And  mete  in  mind  each  step  youth  stray'd  awry ; 
My  knees  I  bow,  and  from  my  heart  I  call, 

0  Lord,  forget  these  sins  and  follies  all. 

For  now  I  see  how  void  youth  is  of  skill, 

1  al-o  see  his  prime  time  and  his  end ; 
I  do  confess  my  faults  and  all  my  ill. 
And  sorrow  sore  for  that  I  did  offend ; 
And  with  a  mind  repentant  of  all  crimes, 
Pardon  I  ask  for  youth  ten  thousand  times. 

Thou,  that,  didst  grant  the  wise  king  his  request, 
Thou,  that  in  whale  the  prophet  didst  pre-erve, 
Thou,  that  forgavest  the  woundings  of  thy  brea.<*, 
Thou,  that  didst  save  the  thief  in  state  to  starve;1 
Thou  only  God,  the  giver  of  all  grace, 
Wipe  out  of  mind  the  path  of  youth's  vain  race. 

Thou,  that  by  power  to  life  didst  raise  the  dead. 
Thou,  that  of  grace,  restoredst  the  blind  to  sight, 
Tl.ou.  that  for  love  thy  life  and  love  outbled, 
Thou,  that  of  favour  rnadest  the  lame  go  right, 
Thou,  that  canst  heal  and  help  in  all  essays. 
Forgive  the  guilt  that  grew  in  youth's  vaiiie  ways. 

And  now,  since  I,  with  faith  and  doubtless  mind, 
Do  fly  to  Thee,  by  prayer  to  appease  thine  ire ; 
And  since,  that  Thee  I  only  seek  to  find, 
And  hope  by  faith  to  attain  my  just  desire; 
Lord,  mind  no  more  youth's  error  and  unskill; 
Enable  age  to  do  thy  holy  will. 


i  '•  In  state  to  starve"— About  to  perish. 


330 


LONDON. 


LONDON. 

The  position  of  London,  relatively  to  the 
other  towns  of  the  empire,  was,  in  the  time 
of  Charles  the  Second,  far  higher  than  at  pre- 
sent. For  at  present  the  population  of  Lon- 
don is  little  more  than  six  times  the  popula- 
tion of  Manchester  or  of  Liverpool.  In  the 
days  of  Charles  the  Second  the  population  of 
London  was  more  than  seventeen  times  the 
population  of  Bristol  or  of  Norwich.  It  may 
be  doubted  whether  any  other  instance  can 
be  mentioned  of  a  great  kingdom  in  which 
the  first  city  was  more  than  seventeen  times 
as  large  as  the  second.  There  is  reason  to 
believe  that,  in  1685,  London  had  been,  during 
about  half  a  century,  the  most  populous  capi- 
tal in  Europe.  The  inhabitants,  who  are  now  * 
at  least  nineteen  hundred  thousand,  were 
then  probably  little  more  than  half  a  million. 
Lonlon  hail  in  the  world  only  one  commer- 
cial rival,  now  long  ago  outstripped,  the 
mighty  and  opulent  Amsterdam.  English 
writers  boasted  of  the  forest  of  masts  and 
yardarms  which  covered  the  river  from  the 
Bridge  to  the  Tower,  and  of  the  stupendous 
sums  which  were  collected  at  the  Custom 
House  in  Thames  Street.  There  is,  indeed, 
no  doubt  that  the  trade  of  the  metropolis 
then  bore  a  far  greater  proportion  than  at 
present  to  the  whole  trade  of  the  country ; 
yet  to  our  generation  the  honest  vaunting  of 
our  ancestors  must  appear  almost  ludicrous. 
The  shipping  which  they  thought  incredibly 
great  appears  not  to  have  exceeded  seventy 
thousand  tons.  This  was,  indeed,  then  more 
than  a  third  of  the  whole  tonnage  of  the 
kingdom,  but  is  now  less  than  a  fourth  of  the 
tonnage  of  Newcastle,  and  is  nearly  equalled 
by  the  tonnage  of  the  steam  vessels  of  the 
Thames.  The  customs  of  London  amounted, 
in  1683,  to  about  three  hundred  and  thirty 
thousand  pounds  a  year.  In  our  time,  the 
net  duty  paid  annually,  at  the  same  place, 
exceeds  ten  millions. 

Whoever  examines  the  maps  of  London 
which  were  published  towards  the  close  of 
the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second  will  see  that 
only  the  nucleus  of  the  present  capital  then 
existed.  The  town  did  not,  as  now,  fade  by 
imperceptible  degrees  into  the  country.  No 
long  avenues  of  villas,  embowered  in  lilacs 
and  laburnums,  extended  from  the  great 
centre  of  wealth  and  civilisation  almost  to 
the  boundaries  of  M  iddlesex  and  far  into  the 
heart  of  Kent  and  Surrey.  In  the  east,  no 
part  of  the  immense  line  of  warehouses  and 
artificial  lakes  which  now  stretches  from  the 


*  This  was  written  in  1842,  the  population  of  London 
ii  now  in  1881  over  three  millions. — ED. 


Tower  to  Blackwall  had  even  been  projected. 

On  the  west,   scarcely  one  of  those  stately 

piles  of  building  which  are  inhabited  by  the 

noble   and  wealthy  was   in   existence ;    and 

Chelsea,  which  is  now  peopled  by  more  than 

forty  thousand  human  beings,  was   a  quiet 

country  village  with   about  a  thousand  in- 

!  habitants.      On  the   north,    cattle   fed,   and 

j  sportsmen  wandered   with   dogs    and   guns, 

j  over  the  site  of  the  borough  of  Marylebone, 

!  and  over  far  the  greater  part  of  the  space 

now  covered  by  the  boroughs  of  Finsbury  and 

of  the  Tower  Hamlets.     Islington  was  almost 

;  a  solitude,  and  poets  loved  to  contrast  its 

I  silence  and  repose  with  the  din  and  turmoil 

of  the  monster  London.     On  the  south  the 

j  capital  is  now  connected  with  its  suburb  by 

several  bridges,  not  inferior  in  magnificence 

and   solidity   to   the    noblest   works   of  the 

Caesars.     In  1685,  a  single  line  of  irregular 

arches,  overhung  by  piles  of  mean  and  crazy 

houses,  and  garnished,  after  a  fashion  worthy 

of  the  naked   barbarians  of    Dahomy,  with 

scores   of    mouldering  heads,   impeded    the 

navigation  of  the  river. 

Of  the  metropolis,  the  City,  properly  so- 
called,  was  the  most  important  division.  At 
the  time  of  the  Restoration  it  had  been  built, 
for  the  most  part,  of  wood  and  plaster ;  the 
few  bricks  that  were  used  were  ill  baked  ; 
the  baoths  where  goods  were  exposed  to  sale 
projected  far  into  the  streets,  and  were  over- 
hung by  the  upper  stories.  A  few  specimens 
of  this  architecture  may  still  be  seen  in  those 
districts  which  were  not  reached  by  the  great 
fire.  That  fire  had,  in  a  few  days,  covered  a 
space  of  little  less  than  a  square  mile  with 
the  ruins  of  eighty-nine  churches  and  of 
thirteen  thousand  houses.  But  the  City  had 
risen  again  with  a  celerity  which  had  excited 
the  admiration  of  neighbouring  countries. 
Unfortunately,  the  old  lines  of  the  streets  had 
been  to  a  great  extent  preserved  ;  and  those 
lines,  originally  traced  in  an  age  when  even 
princesses  performed  their  journeys  on  horse- 
back, were  often  too  narrow  to  allow  wheeled 
carriages  to  pass  each  other  with  ease,  and 
were  therefore  ill  adapted  for  the  residence  of 
wealthy  persons  in  an  age  when  a  coach  and 
six  was  a  fashionable  luxury.  The  style  of 
building  was,  however,  far  superior  to  that  of 
the  City  which  had  perished.  The  ordinary 
material  was  brick,  of  much  better  quality 
than  had  formerly  been  used.  On  the  sites 
of  the  ancient  parish  churches  had  arisen  a 
multitude  of  new  domes,  towers,  and  spires 
which  bore  the  mark  of  the  fertile  genius  of 
Wren.  In  every  place  save  one  the  traces  of 
the  great  devastation  had  been  completely 
effaced.  But  the  crowds  of  workmen,  the 
scaffolds,  and  the  masses  of  hewn  stone  were 


LONDON. 


331 


Btill  to  be  seen  where  the  noblest  of  Pro- 
testant temples  was  slowly  rising  on  the  ruins 
of  the  Old  Cathedral  of  Saint  Paul. 

The  whole  character  of  the  City  has,  since 
that  time,  undergone  a  complete  change.  At 
present  the  bankers,  the  merchants,  and  the 
chief  shopkeepers  repair  thither  on  six  morn- 
ings of  every  week  for  the  transaction  of 
business  ;  but  they  reside  in  other  quarters 
of  the  metropolis,  or  at  suburban  country 
seats  surrounded  by  shrubberies  and  flower 
gardens.  This  revolution  in  private  habits 
lias  produced  a  political  revolution  of  no 
small  importance.  The  City  is  no  longer  re- 
garded by  the  wealthiest  traders  with  that 
attachment  which  every  man  naturally  feels 
for  his  home.  It  is  no  longer  associated  in 
their  minds  with  domestic  affections  and  en- 
dearments. The  fireside,  the  nursery,  the 
social  table,  the  quiet  bed  are  not  there. 
Lombard  Street  and  Threadneedle  Street  are 
merely  places  where  men  toil  and  accumulate. 
They  go  elsewhere  to  enjoy  and  expend.  On 
a  Sunday,  or  in  an  evening  after  the  hours  of 
business,  some  courts  and  alleys,  which  a  few 
hours  before  had  been  alive  with  hurrying  feet 
and  anxious  faces,  are  as  silent  as  the  glades  of 
a  forest.  The  chiefs  of  the  mercantile  interest 
are  no  longer  citizens.  They  avoid,  they 
almost  contemn,  municipal  honours  and 
duties.  Those  honours  and  duties  are  aban- 
doned to  men  who,  though  useful  and  highly 
respected,  seldom  belong  to  the  princely  com- 
mercial houses  of  which  the  names  are  re- 
nowned throughout  the  world. 

In  the  seventeenth  century  the  City  was 
the  merchant's  residence.  Those  mansions  of 
the  great  old  burghers  which  still  exist  have 
been  turned  into  counting  houses  and  ware- 
houses :  but  it  is  evident  that  they  were  ori- 
ginally not  inferior  in  magnificence  to  the 
dwellings  which  were  then  inhabited  by  the 
nobility.  They  sometimes  stand  in  retired- 
and  gloomy  courts,  and  are  accessible  only  by 
inconvenient  passages  ;  but  their  dimensions 
aro  ample,  and  their  aspect  stately.  The  en- 
trances are  decorated  with  richly  carved  pil- 
lars and  canopies.  The  staircases  and  land- 
ing places  are  not  wanting  in  grandeur.  The 
floors  are  sometimes  of  wood  tessellated  after 
the  fashion  of  France.  The  palace  of  Sir 
Robert  Clayton,  in  the  Old  Jewry,  contained 
a  superb  banqueting  room  wainscoted  with 
cedar,  and  adorned  with  battles  of  gods  and 
giants  in  fresco.  Sir  Dudley  North  expended 
four  thousand  pounds,  a  sum  which  would 
then  have  been  important  to  a  Duke,  on  the 
rich  furniture  of  his  reception  rooms  in  Bas- 
inghall  Street.  In  such  abodes,  under  the 
last  Stuarts,  the  heads  of  the  great  firms  lived 
splendidly  and  hospitably.  To  their  dwelling 


place  they  were  bound  by  the  strongest  ties 
of  interest  and  aft'ection.  There  they  had 
passed  their  youth,  had  made  their  friend- 
ships, had  courted  their  wives,  had  seen  their 
children  grow  up,  had  laid  the  remains  of 
their  parents  in  the  earth,  and  expected  that 
their  own  remains  would  be  laid.  That  in- 
tense patriotism  which  is  peculiar  to  the 
members  of  societies  congregated  within  a 
narrow  space  was,  in  such  circumstances, 
strongly  developed.  London  was,  to  the 
Londoner,  what  Athens  was  to  the  Athenian 
of  the  age  of  Pericles,  what  Florence  was  to 
the  Florentine  of  the  fifteenth  century.  The 
citizen  was  proud  of  the  grandeur  of  his  city, 
punctilious  about  her  claims  to  respect,  ambi- 
tious of  her  offices,  and  zealous  for  her 
franchises. 

At  the  close  of  the  reign  of  Charles  the 
Second  the  pride  of  the  Londoners  was  smart- 
ing from  a  cruel  mortification.  The  old 
charter  had  been  taken  away ;  and  the 
magistracy  had  been  remodelled.  All  the 
civic  functionaries  were  Tories ;  and  the 
Whigs,  though  in  numbers  and  in  wealth 
superior  to  their  opponents,  found  themselves 
excluded  from  every  local  dignity.  Never- 
theless, the  external  splendour  of  the  munici- 
pal government  was  not  diminished,  nay,  was 
rather  increased  by  this  change.  For,  under 
the  administration  of  some  Puritans  who  had 
lately  borne  rule,  the  ancient  fame  of  the 
City  for  good  cheer  had  declined :  but  under 
the  new  magistrates,  who  belonged  to  a  more 
festive  party,  and  at  whose  boards  guests  of 
rank  and  fashion  from  beyond  Temple  Bar 
were  often  seen,  the  Guildhall  and  the  halls 
of  the  great  companies  were  enlivened  by 
many  sumptuous  banquets.  During  these 
repasts,  odes  composed  by  the  poet  laureate 
of  the  corporation,  in  praise  of  the  King,  the 
Duke,  and  the  Mayor,  were  sung  to  music. 
The  drinking  was  deep  and  the  shouting  loud. 
\n  observant  Tory,  who  had  often  shared  in 
these  revels,  has  remarked  that  the  practice 
of  huzzaing  after  drinking  healths  dates  from 
this  joyous  period. 

The  magnificence  displayed  by  the  first 
civic  magistrate  was  almost  regal.  The 
gilded  coach,  indeed,  which  is  now  annually 
admired  by  the  crowd,  was  not  yet  a  part  of 
liis  state.  On  great  occasions  he  appeared  on 
horseback,  attended  by  a  long  cavalcade  infe- 
rior in  magnificence  only  to  that  which,  be- 
fore a  coronation,  escorted  the  sovereign  from 
the  Tower  to  Westminster.  The  Lord  Mayor 
was  never  seen  in  public  without  his  rich 
robe,  his  hood  of  black  velvet,  his  gold  chain, 
his  jewel,  and  a  great  attendance  of  harbin- 
gers and  guards.  Nor  did  the  world  find 
anything  ludicrous  in  the  pomp  which  con- 


332 


LONDON. 


sUntly  surrounded  him.  For  it  was  not 
more  than  became  the  place  which,  as  wield- 
ing the  strength  and  representing  the  dignity 
of  the  City  of  London,  he  was  entiiled  to  oc- 
cupy in  the  State.  That  City,  being  then  not 
only  without  equal  in  the  country,  but  with- 
out secoad,  ha  1,  during  five  and  forty  years, 
exercised  almost  as  great  an  influence  on  the 
politics  of  England  as  Paris  has,  in  our  own 
tiine,  exercised  on  the  politics  of  France.  In 
intelligence  London  was  greatly  in  advance 
of  every  other  part  of  the  kingdom.  A  gov- 
ernment, supported  and  trustel  by  London, 
could  in  a  day  obtain  such  pecuniary  means 
as  it  would  have  taken  months  to  collect  from 
the  rest  of  the  island.  Nor  were  the  military 
resources  of  the  capital  to  be  despised.  The 
power  which  the  Lord  Lieutenants  exercised 
in  other  p.irts  of  the  kingdom  was  in  London 
entrusted  to  a  Commission  of  eminent  citizens. 
Under  the  order  of  this  Commission  were 
twelve  regiments  of  foot  and  two  regiments  of 
horse.  An  army  of  drapers'  apprentices  and 
journeymen  tailors,  with  common  councilmen 
for  captains  and  aldermen  for  colonels,  might 
not  indeed  hive  been  able  to  stand  its  ground 
against  regular  troops ;  but  there  were  then 
very  few  regular  troops  in  the  kingdom.  A 
town,  therefore,  which  could  send  forth,  at  an 
hour's  notice,  thousands  of  men,  abounding 
in  natural  courage,  provided  with  tolerable 
weapons,  and  not  altogether  untinctured  with 
martial  discipline,  could  not  but  be  a  valuable 
ally  and  a  formidable  enemy.  It  was  not  for- 
gotten that  Humpden  and  Pym  had  been  pro- 
tected from  lawless  tyranny  by  the  London 
train-bands ;  that,  in  the  great  crisis  of  the 
civil  war,  the  London  train-bands  had 
m  irched  to  raise  the  siege  of  Gloucester;  or 
that,  in  the  movement  against  the  military 
tyrants  which  followed  the  downfall  of 
Richard  Cromwell,  the  London  train-band* 
had  borne  a  signal  part.  In  truth,  it  is  n> 
exaggeration  to  say  that,  but  for  the  hostility 
of  the  City,  Charles  the  First  would  never 
have  been  vanquished,  and  that  without  the 
help  of  the  City,  Charles  the  Second  could 
scarcely  have  been  restored. 

The  considerations  may  serve  to  explain 
why,  in  spite  of  that  attraction  which  had, 
during  a  long  course  of  years,  gradually 
drawn  the  aristocracy  westward,  a  few  men 
of  high  rank  had  continued,  till  a  very  recent 
perio  1,  to  dwell  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Ex- 
change and  of  the  Guildhall.  Shaftesbury 
and  Buckingham,  while  engaged  in  bitter  and 
unscrupulous  opposition  to  the  government, 
had  thought  that  they  could  nowhere  carry 
on  their  intrigues  so  conveniently  or  so 
securely  as  under  the  protection  of  the  City 
magistrates  and  the  City  militia.  Shaftesbury 


had  therefore  lived  in  Aldersgate  Street,  at  a 
house  which  may  still  be  easily  known  by 
pilasters  and  wreaths,  the  graceful  work  of 
inigo.  Buckingham  had  ordered  his  mansion 
near  Charing  Cross,  once  the  abode  of  the 
Archbishops  of  York,  to  be  pulled  down ;  and 
while  streets  and  alleys  which  are  still 
named  after  him  were  rising  on  that  site, 
chose  to  reside  in  Dowgate. 

These,  however,  were  rare  exceptions. 
Almost  all  the  noble  families  of  England  had 
long  migrated  beyond  the  walls.  The  district 
where  most  of  their  town  houses  stood  lies 
between  the  City  and  the  regions  which  are 
now  considered  as  fashionable.  A  few  great 
men  still  retained  their  hereditary  hotels  in 
the  Strand.  The  stately  dwellings  on  the 
south  and  west  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  the 
Piazza  of  Covent  Garden,  Southampton 
Square,  which  is  now  called  Bloomsbury 
Square,  and  King's  Square  in  Soho  Fields, 
which  is  now  called  Soho  Square,  were 
among  the  favourite  spots.  Foreign  princes 
were  carried  to  see  Bloomsbury  Square,  as  one 
of  the  wonders  of  England.  Soho  Square, 
which  had  just  been  built,  was  to  our  an- 
cestors a  subject  of  pride  with  which  their 
posterity  will  hardly  sympathise.  Monmouth 
Square  had  been  the  name  while  the  fortunes 
of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  flourished ;  and  on 
the  southern  side  towered  his  mansion.  The 
front,  though  ungraceful,  was  lofty  and  richly 
adorned.  The  walls  Of  the  principal  apart- 
ments were  finely  sculptured  with  fruit, 
foliage,  and  armorial  bearings,  and  were  hung 
with  embroidered  satin.  Every  trace  of  this 
magnificence  has  long  disappeared ;  and  no 
aristocratical  mansion  is  to  be  found  in  that 
once  aristocratical  quarter.  A  little  way 
north  from  Holborn,  and  on  the  verge  of  the 
pastures  and  corn-fields,  rose  two  celebrated 
palaces,  each  with  an  ample  garden.  One  of 
them,  then  called  Southampton  House,  and 
subsequently  Bedford  House,  was  removed 
about  fifty  years  ago  to  make  room  for  a  new 
city,  which  now  covers  with  its  squares, 
streets,  and  churches  a  vast  area,  renowned 
in  the  seventeenth  century  for  peaches  and 
snipes.  The  other,  Montague  House,  cele- 
brated for  its  frescoes  and  furniture,  was,  a 
few  months  after  the  death  of  Charles  the 
Second,  burned  to  the  ground,  and  was 
speedily  succeeded  by  a  more  magnificent 
Montague  House,  which,  having  been  lon<» 
the  repository  of  such  various  and  precious 
treasures  of  art,  science,  and  learning  as  were 
scarcely  ever  before  assembled  under  a  single 
roof,  has  now  given  place  to  an  edifice  more 
magnificent  still. 

Nearer  to  the  Court,  on  a  space  called  Saint 
James's  Fields,  had  just  been  built  Saint 


LONDON. 


333 


James's  Square  and  Jermyn  Street.  Saint 
James's  Church  had  recently  been  opened 
for  the  accommodation  of  the  inhabitants  of 
this  new  quarter.  Golden  Square,  which  was 
in  the  next  generation  inhabited  by  lords  and 
ministers  of  state,  had  not  yet  been  begun. 
Indeed  the  only  dwellings  to  be  seen  on°the 
north  of  Piccadilly  were  three  or  four  isolated 
and  almost  rural  mansions,  of  which  the 
most  celebrated  was  the  costly  pile  erected  by 
Clarendon,  and  nicknamed  Dunkirk  House. 
It  had  been  purchased  after  its  founder's 
downfall  by  the  Duke  of  Albemarle.  The 
Clarendon  Hotel  and  Albemarle  Street  still 
preserve  the  memory  of  the  site. 

He  who  then  rambled  to  what  is  now  the 
gayest  and  most  crowded  part  of  Regent 
Street  found  himself  in  a  solitude,  and  was 
sometimes  so  fortunate  as  to  have  a  shot  at  a 
woodcock.  On  the  north  the  Oxford  road 
ran  between  hedges.  Three  or  four  hundred 
yards  to  the  south  were  the  garden  walls  of  a 
few  great  houses  which  were  considered  as 
quite  out  of  town.  On  the  west  was  a  meadow 
renowed  for  a  spring  from  which,  long  after- 
wards, Conduit  Street  was  named.  On  the 
east  was  a  field  not  to  be  passed  without  a 
shudder  by  a  Londoner  of  that  age.  There, 
as  in  a  place  far  from  the  haunts  of  men,  had 
been  dug,  twenty  years  before,  when  the 
great  plague  was  raging,  a  pit  into  which  the 
dead  carts  had  nightly  shot  corpses  by  scores. 
It  was  popularly  believed  that  the  earth  was 
deeply  tainted  with  infection,  and  could  not 
be  disturbed  without  imminent  risk  to  human 
life.  No  foundations  were  laid  there  till  two 
generations  had  passed  away  without  any  re- 
turn of  the  pestilence,  and  till  the  ghastly 
spot  had  long  been  surrounded  by  buildings. 

We  should  greatly  err  if  we  were  to  sup- 
pose that  any  of  the  streets  and  squares  then 
bore  the  same  aspect  as  at  present.  The 
great  majority  of  the  houses,  indeed,  have, 
since  that  time,  been  wholly,  or  in  great  part 
rebuilt.  If  the  most  fashionable  parts  of  the 
capital  could  be  placed  before  us  as  they  then 
were,  we  should  be  disgusted  by  their  squalid 
appearance,  and  poisoned  by  their  noisome 
atmosphere. 

In  Covent  Garden  a  filthy  and  noisy  mar- 
ket was  held  close  to  the  dwellings  of  the 
great.  Fruit  women  screamed,  carters  fought, 
cabbage  stalks  and  rotten  apples  accumulated 
in  heaps  at  the  thresholds  of  the  Countess  of 
Berkshire  and  of  the  Bishop  of  Durham. 

The  centre  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  was  an 
open  space  where  the  rabble  congregated 
every  evening,  within  a  few  yards  of  Cardi- 
gan and  Winchester  House,  to  hear  mounte- 
banks harangue,  to  see  bears  dance,  and  to 
set  dogs  at  oxen.  Rubbish  was  shot  in  every 


part  of  the  area.  Horses  were  exercised 
there.  The  beggars  were  as  noisy  and  im- 
portunate as  in  the  worst  governed  cities  of 
the  Continent.  A  Lincoln's  Inn  mumper  was 
a  proverb.  The  whole  fraternity  knew  the 
arms  and  liveries  of  every  charitably  disposed 
grandee  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  as  soon  as 
his  lordship's  coach  and  six  appeared,  came 
hopping  and  crawling  in  crowds  to  persecute 
him.  These  disorders  lasted,  in  spite  of 
many  accidents  and  of  some  legal  proceedings, 
till,  in  the  reign  of  George  the  Second,  Sir 
Joseph  Jekyll,  Master  of  the  Rolls,  was 
knocked  down  and  nearly  killed  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  Square.  Then  at  length  palisades 
were  set  up,  and  a  pleasant  garden  laid  out. 

Saint  James's  Square  was  a  receptacle  for  all 
the  offal  and  cinders,  for  all  the  dead  cats 
and  dead  dogs  of  Westminster.  At  one  time 
a  cudgel  player  kept  the  ring  there.  At  an- 
other time  an  impudent  squatter  settled  him- 
self there,  and  built  a  shed  for  rubbish  under 
the  windows  of  the  gilded  saloons  in  which 
the  first  magnates  of  the  realm,  Norfolk,  Or- 
mond,  Kent,  and  Pembroke,  gave  banquets 
and  balls.  It  was  not  till  these  nuisances  had 
lasted  through  a  whole  generation,  and  till 
much  had  been  written  about  them,  that  the 
inhabitants  applied  to  Parliament  for  permis- 
sion to  put  up  rails,  and  to  plant  trees. 
When  such  was  the  state  of  the  region  inha- 
bited by  the  most  luxurious  portion  of  society, 
we  may  easily  believe  that  the  great  body  of 
the  population  suffered  what  would  now  be 
considered  as  insupportable  grievances.  The 
pavement  was  detestable ;  all  foreigners  cried 
shame  upon  it.  The  drainage  was  so  bad 
that  in  rainy  weather  the  gutters  soon  be- 
came torrents.  Several  facetious  poets  have 
commemorated  the  fury  with  which  these 
black  rivulets  roared  down  Snow  Hill  and 
Ludgate  Hill,  bearing  to  Fleet  Ditch  a  vast 
tribute  of  animal  and  vegetable  filth  from  the 
stalls  of  butchers  and  greengrocers.  Ihis 
flood  was  profusely  thrown  to  right  and  left 
by  coaches  and  carts.  To  keep  as  far  from 
the  carriage  road  as  possible  was  therefore 
the  wish  of  every  pedestrian.  The  mild  and 
timid  gave  the  wall.  The  bold  and  athletic 
took  it.  If  two  roisterers  met,  they  cocked 
their  hats  in  each  other's  faces,  and  pushed 
each  other  about  till  the  weaker  was  shoved 
towards  the  kennel.  If  he  was  a  mere  bully 
he  sneaked  off,  muttering  that  he  should  find 
a  time.  If  he  was  pugnacious,  the  encounter 
probably  ended  in  a  duel  behind  Montague 
House.  The  houses  were  not  numbered. 
There  would  indeed  have  been  little  advan- 
tage in  numbering  them ;  for  of  the  coach- 
men, chairmen,  porters,  and  errand  boys  of 
London,  a  very  small  proportion  could  read. 


334 


LONDON. 


It  was  necessary  to  use  marks  which  the 
most  ignorant  could  understand.  The  shops 
were  therefore  distinguished  by  painted  or 
sculptured  signs,  which  gave  a  gay  and  gro- 
tesque aspect  to  the  streets.  The  walk  from 
'haring  Cross  to  Whitechapel  lay  through  an 
endless  succession  of  Saracens'  Heads,  Royal 
Oaks,  Blue  Bears,  and  Golden  Lambs,  which 
disappeared  when  they  were  no  longer  re- 
quired for  the  direction  of  the  common 
people. 

When  the  evening  closed  in,  the  difficulty 
and  danger  of  walking  about  London  became 
serious  indeed.  The  garret  windows  were 
opened,  and  pails  were  emptied  with  little 
regard  to  those  who  were  passing  below. 
Falls,  bruises,  and  broken  bones  were  of  con- 
stant occurrence.  For,  till  the  last  year  of 
the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  most  of  the 
streets  were  left  in  profound  darkness. 
Thieves  and  robbers  plied  their  trade  with 
impunity :  yet  they  were  hardly  so  terrible 
to  peaceable  citizens  as  another  class  of  ruf- 
fians. It  was  a  favourite  amusement  of  dis- 
solute young  gentlemen  to  swagger  by  night 
about  the  town,  breaking  windows,  upsetting 
sedans,  beating  quiet  young  men,  and  offering 
rude  caresses  to  pretty  women.  Several  dynas- 
ties of  these  tyrants  had,  since  the  Restoration, 
domineered  over  the  streets.  The  Muns  and 
Tityre  Tus  had  given  place  to  the  Hectors,  and 
the  Hectors  had  been  recently  succeeded  by 
the  Scourers.  At  a  later  period  arose  the 
Nicker,  the  Hawcubite,  and  the  yet  more 
dreaded  name  of  Mohawk.  The  machinery 
for  keeping  the  peace  was  utterly  contempti- 
ble. There  was  an  Act  of  Common  Council 
which  provided  that  more  than  a  thousand 
watchmen  should  be  constantly  on  the  alert 
in  the  city,  from  sunset  to  sunrise,  and  that 
every  inhabitant  should  take  his  turn  of  duty. 
But  this  Act  was  negligently  executed.  Few 
of  those  who  were  summoned  left  their  homes ; 
and  those  few  generally  found  it  more  agree- 
able to  tipple  in  alehouses  than  to  face  the 
streets. 

It  ought  to  be  noticed  that,  in  the  last  year 
of  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  began  a 
great  change  in  the  police  of  London,  a  change 
which  has  perhaps  added  as  much  to  the  hap- 
piness of  the  body  of  the  people  as  revolutions 
of  much  greater  fame. 

An  ingenious  projector,  named  Edward 
Heming,  obtained  letters  patent  conveying  to 
him,  for  a  term  of  years,  the  exclusive  right 
of  lighting  up  London.  He  undertook,  for  a 
moderate  consideration,  to  place  a  light  be- 
fore every  tenth  door,  on  moonless  nights, 
from  Michaelmas  to  Lady  Day,  and  from  six 
to  twelve  of  the  clock.  Those  who  now  see 
the  capital  all  the  year  round,  from  dusk  to 


dawn,  blazing  with  a  splendour  beside  which 
the  illuminations  for  La  Hogue  and  Blenheim 
would  have  looked  pale,  may  perhaps  smile  to 
think  of  Heming's  lanterns,  which  glim- 
mered feebly  before  one  house  in  ten  during 
a  small  part  of  one  night  in  three.  But  such 
was  not  the  feeling  of  his  contemporaries. 
His  scheme  was  enthusiastically  applauded, 
and  furiously  attacked.  The  friends  of  im- 
provement extolled  him  as  the  greatest  of  all 
the  benefactors  of  his  city.  What,  they  asked, 
were  the  boasted  inventions  of  Archimedes, 
when  compared  with  the  achievement  of  the 
man  who  had  turned  the  nocturnal  shades 
into  noon-day?  In  spite  of  these  eloquent 
eulogies  the  cause  of  darkness  was  not  left 
undefended.  There  were  fools  in  that  age 
who  opposed  the  introduction  of  what,  was 
called  the  new  light  as  strenuously  as  fools  in 
our  age  have  opposed  the  introduction  of  vac- 
cination and  railroads,  as  strenuously  as  the 
fools  of  an  age  anterior  to  the  dawn  of  history 
doubtless  opposed  the  introduction  of  the 
plough  and  of  alphabetical  writing,  Many 
years  after  the  date  of  Heming's  patent  there 
were  extensive  districts  in  which  no  lamp 
was  seen. 

We  may  easily  imagine  what,  in  such  times, 
must  have  been  the  state  of  the  quarters  of 
London  which  was  peopled  by  the  outcasts  of 
society.  Among  those  quarters  one  had  at- 
tained a  scandalous  pre-eminence.  On  the 
confines  of  the  City  and  the  Temple  had  been 
founded,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  a  House 
of  Carmelite  Friars,  distinguished  by  their 
white  hoods.  The  precinct  of  this  house  had, 
before  the  Reformation,  been  a  sanctuary  for 
criminals,  and  still  retained  the  privilege  of 
protecting  debtors  from  arrest.  Insolvents 
consequently  were  to  be  found  in  every 
dwelling,  from  cellar  to  garret.  Of  these  a 
large  proportion  were  knaves  and  libertines, 
and  were  followed  to  their  asylum  by  women 
more  abandoned  than  themselves.  The  civil 
power  was  unable  to  keep  order  in  a  district 
swarming  with  such  inhabitants ;  and  thus 
Whitefriars  became  the  favourite  resort  of  all 
who  wished  to  be  emancipated  from  the  re- 
straints of  the  law.  Though  the  immunities 
legally  belonging  to  the  place  extended  only 
to  cases  of  debt,  cheats,  false  witnesses, 
forgers,  and  highwaymen  found  refuge  there. 
For  amidst  a  rabble  so  desperate  no  peace- 
officer's  life  was  in  safety.  At  the  cry  of 
"  Rescue,"  bullies  with  swords  and  cudgels, 
and  termagant  hags  with  spits  and  broom- 
sticks, poured  forth  by  hundreds ;  and  the 
intruder  was  fortunate  if  he  escaped  back 
into  Fleet  Street,*  hustled,  stripped,  and 
pumped  upon.  Even  the  warrant  of  the 
Chief  Justice  of  England  could  not  be  exe- 


LONDON. 


335 


cuted  without  the  help  of  a  company  of  mus- 
keteers. Such  relics  of  the  barbarism  of  the 
darkest  ages  were  to  be  found  within  a  short 
walk  of  the  chambers  where  Somers  was 
studying  history  and  law,  of  the  chapel 
where  Tillotson  was  preaching,  of  the  coffee- 
house where  Dryden  was  passing  judgment 
on  poems  and  plays,  and  of  the  hall  where 
the  lloyal  Society  was  examining  the  astro- 
nomical system  of  Isaac  Newton. 

Each  of  the  two  cities  which  made  up  the 
capital  of  England  had  its  own  centre  of  at- 
traction. In  the  metropolis  of  commerce  the 
point  of  convergence  was  the  Exchange ;  in 
the  metropolis  of  fashion  the  Palace.  But 
the  Palace  did  not  retain  its  influence  so  long 
as  the  Exchange.  The  Revolution  completely 
altered  the  relations  between  the  Court  and 
the  higher  classes  of  society.  It  was  by  de- 
grees discovered  that  the  King,  in  his  indi- 
vidual capacity,  had  very  little  to  give :  that 
coronets  and  garters,  bishoprics  and  embas- 
sies, lordships  of  the  Treasury  and  tellerships 
of  the  Exchequer,  nay,  even  charges  in  the 
royal  stud  and  bedchamber,  were  really  be- 
stowed, not  by  him,  but  by  his  advisers. 
Every  ambitious  and  covetous  man  perceived 
that  he  would  consult  his  own  interest  far 
better  by  acquiring  the  dominion  of  a  Cornish 
borough,  and  by  rendering  good  service  to 
the  ministry  during  a  critical  session,  than 
by  becoming  the  companion,  or  even  the 
minion,  of  his  prince.  It  was  therefore  in 
the  antechambers,  not  of  George  the  First  and 
of  George  the  Second,  but  of  Walpole  and 
Pelham,  that  the  daily  crowd  of  courtiers  was 
to  be  found.  It  is  also  to  be  remarked  that 
the  same  Revolution,  which  made  it  impos- 
sible that  our  Kings  should  use  the  patronage 
of  the  state  merely  for  the  purpose  of  gratify- 
ing their  personal  predilections,  gave  us 
several  Kings  unfitted  by  their  education  and 
habits  to  be  gracious  and  affable  hosts.  They 
had  been  born  and  bred  on  the  Continent.  They 
never  felt  themselves  at  home  in  our  island. 
If  they  spoke  our  language,  they  spoke  it  in- 
elegantly and  with  effort.  Our  national  cha- 
racter they  never  fully  understood.  Our 
national  manners  they  hardly  attempted  to 
acquire.  The  most  important  part  of  their 
duty  they  performed  better  than  any  ruler 
who  precede!  them :  for  they  governed 
strictly  according  to  law :  but  they  could  not 
be  the  first  gentlemen  of  the  realm,  the  heads 
of  polite  society.  If  ever  they  unbent,  it  was 
in  a  very  small  circle  where  hardly  an  Eng- 
lish face  was  to  be  seen  ;  and  they  were  never 
so  happy  as  when  they  could  escape  for  a 
summer  to  their  native  land.  They  had  in- 
deed their  days  of  reception  for  our  nobility 
and  gentry;  but  the  reception  waa  a  mere 


matter  of  form,  and  became  at  last  as  solemn 
a  ceremony  as  a  funeral. 

Not  such  was  the  Court  of  Charles  the  Sec- 
ond. Whitehall,  when  he  dwelt  there,  was 
the  focus  of  political  intrigue  and  of  fashion- 
able gaiety.  Half  the  jobbing  and  half  the 
flirting  of  the  metropolis  went  on  under  his 
roof.  Whoever  could  make  himself  agreeable 
to  the  prince,  or  could  secure  the  good  offices 
of  the  mistress,  might  hope  to  rise  in  the 
world  without  rendering  any  service  to  the 
government,  without  being  even  known  by 
sight  to  any  minister  of  state.  This  courtier 
got  a  frigate,  and  that  a  company  ;  a  third, 
the  pardon  of  a  rich  offender ;  a  fourth,  a 
lease  of  crown  land  on  easy  terms.  If  the 
King  notified  his  pleasure  that  a  briefless 
lawyer  should  be  made  a  judge,  or  that  a 
libertine  baronet  should  be  made  a  peer,  the 
gravest  counsellors,  after  a  little  murmuring, 
submitted. 

Interest,  therefore,  drew  a  constant  press 
of  suitors  to  the  gates  of  the  palace ;  and 
those  gates  always  stood  wide.  The  King 
kept  open  house  every  day,  and  all  day  long, 
for  the  good  society  of  London,  the  extreme 
Whigs  only  excepted.  Hardly  any  gentleman 
had  any  difficulty  in  making  his  way  to  the 
royal  presence.  The  levee  was  exactly  what 
the  word  imports.  Some  men  of  quality 
came  every  morning  to  stand  round  their 
master,  to  chat  with  him  while  his  wig  was 
combed  and  his  cravat  tied,  and  to  accompany 
him  in  his  early  walk  through  the  Park.  All 
persons  who  had  been  properly  introduced 
might,  without  any  special  invitation,  go  to 
see  him  dine,  sup,  dance,  and  play  at  hazard, 
and  might  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  him 
tell  stories,  which  indeed  he  told  remarkably 
well,  about  his.  flight  from  Worcester,  and 
about  the  misery  which  he  had  endured  when 
he  was  a  state  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  the 
canting,  meddling  preachers  of  Scotland. 
Bystanders  whom  His  Majesty  recognised 
often  came  in  for  a  courteous  word.  This 
proved  a  more  successful  kingcraft  than  any 
that  his  father  or  grandfather  had  practised. 
It  was  not  easy  for  the  most  austere  republi- 
can of  the  school  of  Marvel  to  resist  the  fas- 
cination of  so  much  good  humour  and  affa- 
bility ;  and  many  a  veteran  Cavalier,  in 
whose  heart  the  remembrance  of  unrequited 
sacrifices  and  services  had  been  festering 
during  twenty  years,  was  compensated  in 
one  moment  for  wounds  and  sequestrations 
by  his  sovereign's  kind  nod,  and  "God  bless 
you.  my  old  friend  ! " 

Whitehall  naturally  became  the  chief  staple 
of  news.  Whenever  there  was  a  rumour  that 
anything  important  had  happened  or  was 
about  to  happen,  people  hastened  thither  to 


836 


LONDON. 


obtain  intelligence  from  the  fountain-head. 
The  galleries  presented  the  appearance  of  a 
modern  club-room  at  an  anxious  time.  They 
were  full  of  people  enquiring  whether  the 
Dutch  mill  was  in,  what  tidings  the  express 
from  France  had  brought,  whether  John 
Sobiesky  h  vd  beaten  the  Turks,  whether  the 
Doge  of  Genoa  was  really  at  Paris.  These 
were  matters  about  which  it  was  safe  to  talk 
aloud.  But  there  were  subjects  concerning 
which  information  was  asked  and  given  in 
whispers.  Had  Halifax  got  the  better  of 
Rochester  ?  Was  there  to  be  a  Parliament  ? 
Was  the  Duke  of  York  really  going  to  Scot- 
land? Had  Monmouth  really  been  sum- 
moned from  the  Hague  ?  Men  tried  to  read 
the  countenance  of  every  minister  as  he  went 
through  the  throng  to  and  fro  from  the  royal 
closet.  All  sorts  of  auguries  were  drawn 
from  the  tone  in  which  His  Majesty  spoke  to 
the  Lord  President,  or  from  the  laugh  with 
which  His  Majesty  honoured  a  jest  of  the 
Lord  Privy  Seal ;  and  in  a  few  hours  the 
hopes  and  fears  inspired  by  such  slight  indi- 
cations had  spread  to  all  the  coffee-houses 
from  Saint  Jaims's  to  the  Tower. 

The  coffee-house  must  not  bo  dismissed 
with  a  cursory  mention.  It  might  indeed  at 
thai  time  have  been  not  improperly  called  a 
most  important  political  institution.  No  Par- 
liament had  sat  for  years.  The  municipal 
council  of  the  City  had  ceased  to  speak  the 
sense  of  the  citizens.  Public  meetings, 
harangues,  resolutions,  and  the  rest  of  the 
modern  machinery  of  agitation  had  not  yet 
come  into  fashion.  Nothing  resembling  the 
modern  newspaper  existed.  In  such  circum- 
stances the  coffee-houses  were  the  chief  organs 
through  which  the  public  opinion  of  the  me- 
tropolis vented  itself. 

The  first  of  these  establishments  had  been 
set  up  by  a  Turkey  merchant,  who  had  ac- 
quired among  the  Mahometans  a  taste  for 
their  favourite  beverage.  The  convenience 
of  being  able  to  make  appointments  in  any 
part  of  the  town,  and  of  being  able  to  pass 
evenings  socially  at  a  very  small  charge,  was 
so  great  that  the  fashion  spread  fast.  Every 
man  of  the  upper  or  middle  class  went  daily 
to  his  coffee-house  to  learn  the  news  and  to 
discuss  it.  Every  coffee-house  had  one  or 
more  orators  to  whose  eloquence  the  crowd 
listened  with  admiration,  and  who  soon  be- 
came what  the  journalists  of  our  time  have 
been  called,  a  fourth  Estate  of  the  realm. 
The  Court  had  long  seen  with  uneasiness  the 
growth  of  this  new  power  in  the  state.  An 
attempt  had  been  made,  during  Danby's  ad- 
ministration, to  close  the  coffee-houses.  But 
men  of  all  parties  missed  their  usual  places  of 
ressrt.  so  much  that  there  waa  an  universal 


outcry.  The  government  did  not  venture,  in 
opposition  to  a  feeling  so  strong  and  general, 
to  enforce  a  regulation  of  which  the  legality 
might  well  be  questioned.  Since  that  time 
ten  years  had  elapsed,  and  during  those 
years  the  number  and  influence  of  the  coffee- 
houses had  been  constantly  increasing.  Fo- 
reigners remarked  that  the  coffee-house  was 
that  which  especially  distinguished  London 
from  all  other  cities ;  that  the  coffee-house 
was  the  Londoner's  home,  and  that  those  who 
wished  to  find  a  gentleman  commonly  asked, 
not  whether  he  lived  in  Fleet  Street  or 
Chancery  Lane,  but  whether  he  frequented 
the  Grecian  or  the  Rainbow.  Nobody  was 
excluded  from  these  places  who  laid  down  his 
penny  at  the  bar.  Yet  every  rank  and  pro- 
fession, and  every  shade  of  religious  and  po- 
litical opinion,  had  its  own  head  quarters. 
There  were  houses  near  Saint  James's  Park 
where  fops  congregated,  their  heads  and 
shoulders  covered  with  black  or  flaxen  wigs, 
not  less  ample  than  those  which  are  now 
worn  by  the  Chancellor  and  by  the  Speaker 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  wig  came 
from  Paris  and  so  did  the  rest  of  the  fine 
gentleman's  garments,  his  embroidered  coat, 
his  fringed  gloves,  and  the  tassel  which  up- 
held his  pantaloons.  The  conversation  was 
in  that  dialect  which,  long  after  it  had  ceased 
to  be  spoken  in  fashionable  circles,  continued, 
in  the  mouth  of  Lord  Foppington,  to  excite 
the  mirth  of  theatres.  The  atmosphere  was 
like  that  of  a  perfumer's  shop.  Tobacco  in 
any  other  form  than  that  of  richly  scented 
snuff  was  held  in  abomination.  If  any  clown, 
ignorant  of  the  usages  of  the  house,  called  for 
a  pipe,  the  sneers  of  the  whole  assembly  and 
the  short  answers  of  the  waiters  soon  con- 
vinced him  that  he  had  better  go  somewhere 
else.  Nor,  indeed,  would  he  have  had  far  to 
go.  For,  in  general  the  coffee-rooms  reeked 
with  tobacco  like  a  guard-room :  and  strangers 
sometimes  expressed  their  surprise  that  so 
many  people  should  leave  their  own  firesides 
to  sit  in  the  midst  of  eternal  fog  and  stench. 
Nowhere  was  the  smoking  more  constant 
than  Will's.  That  celebrated  house,  situated 
between  Covent  Garden  and  Bow  Street,  was 
sacred  to  polite  letters.  There  the  talk  was 
about  poetical  justice  and  the  unities  of  place 
and  time.  There  was  a  faction  for  Perrault 
and  the  moderns,  a  faction  for  Boileau  and 
the  ancients.  One  group  debated  whether 
Paradise  Lost  ought  not  to  have  been  in 
rhyme.  To  another  an  envious  poetaster 
demonstrated  that  Venice  Preserved  ought  to 
have  been  hooted  from  the  stage.  Under  no 
roof  was  a  greater  variety  of  figures  to  be 
seen.  There  were  Earls  in  stars  and  garters, 
clergymen  in  cassocks  and  bands,  pert  Temp* 


LONDON. 


337 


lars,  sheepish  lads  from  the  Universities, 
translators  and  index  makers  in  ragged  coats 
of  frieze.  The  great  press  was  to  get  near 
the  chair  where  John  Lh-yden  sate.  In  win- 
ter that  chair  was  always  in  the  warmest  nook 
by  the  fire ;  in  summer  it  stood  in  the  bal- 
cony. To  bow  to  the  Laureate,  and  to  hear 
his  opinion  of  llacine's  last  tragedy  or  of 
Bossu's  treatise  on  epic  poetry,  was  thought 
a  privilege.  A  pinch  from  his  snuff-box  was 
an  honour  sufficient  to  turn  the  head  of  a 
young  enthusiast.  There  were  coffee-houses 
where  the  first  medical  men  might  be  con- 
sulted. Doctor  John  Ka Jcliffe,  who ,  in  1685, 
rose  to  the  largest  practice  in  London,  came 
daily,  at  the  hour  when  the  Exchange  was 
full,  from  his  house  in  Bow  Street,  then  a 
fashionable  part  of  the  capital,  to  Garraway's, 
and  was  to  be  found,  surrounded  by  surgeons 
and  apothecaries,  at  a  particular  table.  There 
were  Puritan  coffee-houses  where  no  oath 
was  heard,  and  where  lank-haired  men  dis- 
cussed election  and  reprobation  through  their 
noses  ;  Jew  coffee-houses  where  dark-eyed 
money  changers  from  Venice  and  Amsterdam 
greeted  each  other ;  and  Popish  coffee-houses 
where,  as  good  Protestants  believed,  Jesuits 
planned,  over  their  cups,  another  great  fire, 
and  cast  silver  bullets  to  shoot  the  King. 

LOBD  MACAULAY. 


LAURA  IN  HEAVEN. 

Raised  by  my  thought,  I  found  the  region  where 
She  whom  I  seek,  but  here  on  earth  in  vain, 
Dwells  among  those  who  the  third  heaven  gain, 

And  saw  her  lovelier  and  less  haughty  there. 

She  took  my  hand  and  said— "In  this  bright  sphere, 
Unless  my  wish  deceive,  we  meet  again : 
Lo !  I  am  she  who  caused  thee  strife  and  pain, 

And  closed  my  day  before  the  eve  was  near. 

My  bliss  no  human  thought  can  understand: 
I  wait  for  thee  alone— my  fleshly  veil 
So  loved  by  thee  is  by  the  grave  retained." 

She  ceased,  ah  why?  and  why  let  loose  my  hand? 
Such  chaste  and  tender  words  could  so  prevail, 
A  little  more,  I  had  in  heaven  remained. 

PETEABCH. 


AN  ENGLISH  LANDSCAPE  AND  A  COUN- 
TRY CONGREGATION. 

FROM    "  ADAM  BEDE." 

The  Green  lay  at  the  extremity  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  from  it  the  road  branched  off  in 
two  directions,  one  leading  farther  up  the 
hill  by  the  church,  and  the  other  winding 
gently  down  toward  the  valley.  On  the  side 
22 


of  the  Green  that  led  toward  the  church   the 
broken   line    of  thatched  cottages  was  con- 
tinued  nearly  to  the  church-yard   gate  ;   but 
on    the    opposite,    north-western    side    there 
was  nothing   to   obstruct  the  view  of  gently- 
swelling  meadows,   and   wooded  valley,  and 
dark  masses  of  distant  hills.     The  rich  undu- 
lating district  of  Loainshire   to  which  Hny- 
slope  belonged  lies  close  to  a  grim  outskirt  of 
Stonyshire,  overlooked  by  its  barren  hills,  as 
a  pretty   blooming  sister  may  sometimes  be 
seen  linked  in   the   arm  of  a   rugged,    tall, 
swarthy  brother  ;  and  in  two  or  three  hours' 
ride  the   traveler  might  exchange   a  bleak, 
treeless  region,  intersected  by  lines  of  cold 
gray  stone,   for  one  where  his  road  wound 
under  the   shelter  of  the  woods,  or  upswell- 
ing   hills,  muffled  with  hedgerows  and  long 
meadow-grass  and  thick  corn  ;  and  where  at 
every  turn  he  came  upon  some  fine  old  coun- 
try-seat nestled  in  the  valley  or  crowning  the 
slope,  some  homestead  with  its  long  length  of 
barn  and   its  cluster  of  golden  ricks,   some 
gray  steeple  looking  out  from  a  pretty  con- 
fusion of  trees  and  thatch  and  dark-red  tiles. 
It  was  just  such  a  picture  as  this  last  that  Hay- 
slope  church  had   made  to  the  traveler  as  he 
began  to  mount  the  gentle  slope  leading  to  its 
pleasant  uplands,  and  now  from  his  station 
near  the  Green  he  had  before  him  in   one 
view  nearly  all  the  other  typical  features  of 
this   pleasant   land.      High    up   against  the 
horizon  were  the  huge  conical  masses  of  hill, 
like  giant  mounds  intended  to  fortify  this  re- 
gion of  corn  and  grass  against  the  keen  and 
hungry  winds  of  the  north,  not  distant  enough 
to  be  clothed  in  purple  mystery,  but  with 
somber  greenish  sides  visibly  speckled  with 
sheep,   whose  motion  was  only  revealed  by 
memory,  not  detected  by  sight ;  wooed  from 
day  to  day  by  the  changing  hours,  but  re- 
sponding with  no  change  in  themselves — left 
forever  grim  and  sullen  after   the  flush  of 
morning,  the  winged  gleams  of  the  April  noon- 
day, the  parting  crimson   glory  of  the  ripen- 
ing summer  sun.     And  directly  below  them 
the  eye  r«Bted  on  a  more  advanced  line  of 
hanging  woods,  divided  by  bright  patches  of 
pasture  or  furrowed  crops,  and  not  yet  deep- 
ened into  the  uniform  leafy  curtain  of  high 
summer,  but  still  showing  the  warm  tints  of 
the  young  oak  and  the  tender  green  of  the 
ash  and  lime.     Then  came  the  valley,  where 
the  woods  grew  thicker,  as  if  they  had  rolled 
down  and  hurried  together  from  the  patches 
left   smooth  on   the   slope,   that  they  might 
take  the  better  care  of  the  tall  mansion  which 
lifted   its  parapets   and   sent   its    faint  blue 
summer  smoke  among  them.    Doubtless  there 
was  a  large  swoop  of  park  and  a  broad,  glassy 
pool  in  front  of  that  mansion,  but  the  swell- 


388 


JUGGLING  JERRY 


ing  slope  of  meadow  would  not  let  our 
traveler  see  them  from  the  village  green.  He 
saw,  instead,  a  foreground  which  was  just  as 
lovely — the  level  sunlight  lying  like  trans- 
parent gjld  among  the  gently -curving  stems 
of  the  feathered  grass  and  the  tall  red  sorrel, 
and  the  white  umbels  of  the  hemlocks  lining 
the  bushy  hedgerows.  It  was  that  moment 
in  summer  when  the  sound  of  the  scythe  be- 
ing whetted  makes  us  cast  more  lingering 
looks  at  the  flower-sprinkled  tresses  of  the 
meadows. 

He  might  have  seen  other  beauties  in  the 
landscape  if  he  had  turned  a  little  in  his  sad- 
dle and  looked  eastward,  beyond  Jonathan 
Burge's  pasture  and  wood-yard  toward  the 
green  corn  fields  and  walnut-trees  of  the  Hall 
Farm ;  but  apparently  there  was  more  in- 
terest for  him  in  the  living  groups  close  at 
hand.  Every  generation  in  the  village  was 
there,  from  "  old  Feyther  Taft"  in  his  brown 
worsted  night-cap,  who  was  bent  nearly 
double,  but  seemed  tough  enough  to  keep  on 
his  legs  a'  long  while,  leaning  on  his  short 
stick,  down  to  the  babies  with  their  little 
round  heads  lolling  forward  in  quilted  linen 
caps.  Now  and  then  there  was  a  new  ar- 
rival ;  perhaps  a  slouching  laborer,  who. 
having  eaten  his  supper,  came  out  to  look  at 
the  unusual  scene  with  a  slow  bovine  gaze, 
willing  to  hear  what  any  one  had  to  say  in 
explanation  of  it,  but  by  no  means  excited 
enough  to  ask  a  question.  But  all  took  care 
not  to  join  the  Methodists  on  the  Green,  and 
identify  themselves  in  that  way  with  the  ex- 
pected audience,  for  there  was  not  one  of 
them  that  would  not  have  disclaimed  the  im- 
putation of  having  come  out  to  hear  the 
"preicher-woman  " — they  had  only  come 
out  to  see  "  what  war-a-goin'  on,  like."  The 
men  were  chiefly  gathering  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  blacksmith's  shop.  But  do  not 
imagine  them  gathered  in  a  knot.  Villagers 
never  swarm  ;  a  whisper  is  unknown  among 
them,  and  they  seem  almost  as  incapable 
of  an  undertone  as  a  cow  or  a  stag. 

Your  true  rustic  turns  his  back  on  his  in- 
terlocutor, throwing  a  question  over  his 
shoulder  as  if  he  meant  to  run  away  from  the 
answer,  and  walking  a  step  or  two  farther  off 
when  the  interest  of  the  dialogue  culminates. 
So  the  group  in  the  vicinity  of  the  black- 
smith's door  was  by  no  means  a  close  one, 
and  formed  no  screen  in  front  of  Chad  Cran- 
age, the  blacksmith  himself,  who  stood  with 
his  black  brawny  arms  folded,  leaning  against 
the  door-post,  and  occasionally  sending  forth 
a  bellowing  laugh  at  his  own  jokes,  giving 
them  a  marked  preference  over  the  sarcasms 
of  Wiry  Ben,  who  had  renounced  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  Holy  Bush  for  the  sake  of  seeing 


life  under  a  new  form.  But  both  styles  of 
wit  were  treated  with  equal  contempt  by  Mr. 
Joshua  Rann.  Mr.  Kami's  leathern  apron 
and  subdued  grimness  can  leave  no  one  in 
any  doubt  that  he  is  the  village  shoemaker  ; 
the  thrusting  out  of  his  chin  and  stomach, 
and  the  twirling  of  his  thumbs,  are  more 
subtle  indications,  intended  to  prepare  un- 
wary strangers  for  the  discovery  that  they 
are  in  the  presence  of  the  parish  clerk. 
"  Old  Josh  way,"  as  he  Li  irreverently  called 
by  his  neighbors,  is  in  a  state  of  simmering 
indignation ;  but  he  has  not  yet  opened  his 
lips  except  to  say,  in  a  resounding  bass  un- 
dertone, like  the  tuning  of  a  violoncello, 
"  Sehon,  King  of  the  Amorites ;  for  His 
mercy  endureth  forever  ;  and  Og,  the  King  of 
Basau  ;  for  His  mercy  endureth  forever" — 
a  quotation  which  may  seem  to  have  slight 
bearing  on  the  present  occasion,  but,  as  with 
every  other  anomaly,  adequate  knowledge 
will  show  it  to  be  a  natural  sequence.  Mr. 
Rann  was  inwardly  maintaining  the  dignity 
of  the  Church  in  the  face  of  this  scandalous 
irruption  of  Methodism ;  and  as  that  dignity 
was  bound  up  with  his  own  sonorous  utter- 
ances of  the  responses,  his  argument  naturally 
suggested  a  quotation  from  the  psalm  he  had 
read  the  last  Sunday  afternoon. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


JUGGLING  JERRY.1 

[GEORGE  MEREDITH,  born  in  Hampshire,  1828.  H« 
was  educated  for  the  legal  profession,  but  devoted  him- 
self to  that  of  literature.  He  has  laboured  industriously 
and  well ;  and  has  been  recognized  as  one  of  the  best 
class  of  contemporary  novelists.  "  In  his  poetry,"  says 
one  of  his  critics, "  we  can  trace  the  same  qualities 
which  have  made  his  Evan  Harrington  and  his  Richard 
Fecerel  such  pleasant  reading,  namely,  much  humour 
joined  to  very  uncommon  powers  of  observation  and 
graphic  painting."  His  chief  works  are :  The  Shaving 
of  Shaypat;  Farina,  a  legend  of  Cologne;  Emilia  in 
England;  Rhoda  Fleming;  VUtoria ;  and  his  latest 
(1872)  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond.] 

Pitch  here  the  tent,  while  the  old  horse  grazes : 

By  the  old  hedge-side  we'll  halt  a  stage. 
It's  nigh  my  last  above  the  daisies : 

My  next  leaf '11  be  man's  blank  page. 
Yes,  my  old  girl !  and  it's  no  use  crying : 

Juggler,  constable,  king,  must  bow. 
One  that  outjuggles  all's  been  spying 

Long  to  have  me,  and  he  has  me  now. 


1  From  Modern  Lore  and  Poems  of  Ote  English  Roadside, 
by  George  Meredith.  London:  Chapman  and  Hail, 
1862, 


JUGGLING  JERRY. 


339 


II. 
We'^e  travelled  times  to  this  old  common : 

Often  we've  hung  our  pots  in  the  gorse. 
We've  had  a  stirring  life,  old  woman  ! 

You,  and  I,  and  the  old  gray  horse. 
Races,  and  fairs,  and  royal  occasions, 

Found  us  coming  to  their  call : 
Now  they'll  miss  us  at  our  stations: 

There's  a  Juggler  outjuggles  all! 

III. 

Up  goes  the  lark,  as  if  all  were  jolly! 

Over  the  duck-pond  the  willow  shakes. 
E»sv  to  think  that  grieving's  folly, 

When  the  hand's  firm  as  driven  stakes! 
Ay  !  when  we're  strong,  and  braced,  and  manful, 

Life's  a  sweet  fiddle  :  but  we're  a  batch 
Born  to  become  the  Gre.tt  Juggler's  hau'ful : 

Balls  he  shies  up,  and  is  safe  to  catch. 

IV. 

Here's  where  the  lads  of  the  village  cricket: 

I  was  a  lad  not  wide  from  here : 
Couldn't  I  whip  off  the  bale  from  the  wicket? 

Like  an  old  world  those  days  appear ! 
Donkey,  sheep,  geese,  and  thatch'd  ale-house — I 
know  them ! 

They  are  old  friends  of  my  halts,  and  seem, 
Somehow,  as  if  kind  thanks  I  owe  them  : 

Juggling  don't  hinder  the  heart's  esteem. 

V. 

Juggling's  no  sin,  for  we  must  have  victual: 

Nature  allows  us  to  bait  for  the  fool. 
Holding  one's  own  makes  us  juggle  no  little; 

But,  to  increase  it,  hard  Juggling's  the  rule. 
You  that  are  sneering  at  my  profession, 

Haven't  you  juggled  a  vast  amount? 
There's  the  Prime  Minister,  in  one  Session, 

Juggles  more  games  than  ray  sins  '11  count. 

VI. 
I've  murder'd  insects  with  mock  thunder: 

Conscience,  for  that,  in  men  don't  quail. 
I've  made  bread  from  the  bump  of  wonder: 

That's  my  business,  and  there's  my  tale. 
Fashion  and  rank  all  praised  the  professor: 

Ay !  and  I've  had  my  smile  from  the  Queen : 
Bravo,  Jerry  !  she  meant :  God  bless  her ! 

Ain't  this  a  sermon  on  that  scene? 

VII. 

I've  studied  men  from  my  topsy-turvy 

Close,  and,  I  reckon,  rather  true. 
Some  are  fine  fellows:  some,  right  scurvy: 

Most,  a  dash  between  the  two. 
But  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  makes  me 

Think  more  kindly  of  the  race : 
And  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  shakes  me 

When  the  Great  Juggler  I  must  face. 


VIIT. 
We  two  were  married,  due  and  legal: 

Honest  we've  lived  since  we've  been  one. 
Lord!  I  could  then  jump  like  an  eagle: 

You  danced  bright  as  a  bit  o'  the  sun. 
Birds  in  a  May-bush  we  were!  right  merryj 

All  night  we  kiss'd— we  juggled  all  day. 
Joy  was  the  heart  of  Juggling  Jerry  ! 

Now  from  his  old  girl  he's  juggled  away. 

IX. 

It's  past  parsons  to  console  us : 

No,  nor  no  doctor  fetch  for  me: 
I  can  die  without  my  bolus; 

Two  of  a  trade,  lass,  never  agree! 
Parson  and  Doctor !— don't  they  love  rarely, 

Fighting  the  devil  in  other  men's  fields! 
Stand  up  yourself  and  match  him  fairly: 

Then  see  how  the  rascal  yields ! 

X. 

I,  lass,  have  lived  no  gipsy,  flaunting 

Finery  while  his  poor  helpmate  grubs: 
Coin  I've  stored,  and  you  won't  be  wanting: 

You  shan't  beg  from  the  troughs  and  tubs. 
Nobly  you've  stuck  to  me,  though  in  his  kitchen 

Many  a  marquis  would  hail  you  cook  ! 
Palaces  you  could  have  ruled  and  grown  rich  in, 

But  your  old  Jerry  you  never  forsook. 

XI. 

Hand  up  the  chirper!  ripe  ale  winks  in  it; 

Let's  have  comfort  and  be  at  peace. 
Once  a,  stout  draught  made  me  light  as  a  linnet. 

Cheer  up !  the  lord  must  have  his  lease. 
May  be — for  none  see  in  that  black  hollow — 

It's  just  a  place  where  we're  held  in  pawn. 
And,  when  the  Great  Jugg:er  makes  as  to  swallow, 

It's  just  the  sword-trick — I  ain't  quite  gone! 

XII. 

Yonder  came  smells  of  the  gorse,  so  nutty, 

Gold-like  and  warm  :  it's  the  prime  of  May. 
Better  than  mortar,  brick,  and  putty, 

Is  God's  house  on  a  blowing  day. 
Lean  me  more  up  the  mound;  now  I  feel  it: 

All  the  old  heath-smells !    Ain't  it  strange? 
There's  .the  world  laughing,  as  if  to  conceal  it, 

But  He's  by  us,  juggling  the  change. 

XIII. 

I  mind  it  well,  by  the  sea-beach  lying, 
Once — it's  long  gone — when  two  gulls  we  be- 
held, 
Which,  as  the  moon  got  up,  were  flying 

Down  a  big  wave  that  spark'd  and  swell'd. 
Crack  !  went  a  gun  :  one  fell :  the  second 

Wheel'd  round  him  twice,  and  was  off  for  new 

luck : 

There  in  the  dark  her  white  winjr  beckon'd: — 
Drop  me  a  kiss — I'm  the  bird  deud-strucki 


340 


THE  DWARF  AND  THE  INVISIBLE  CAP. 


THE  DWARF  AND  THE  INVISIBLE 
CAP. 

A   HARZ    LEGEND.1 

Shepherd  Jacob's  greatest  pleasure  was  his 
bagpipes.  Almost  before  the  morning  dawned 
he  was  puffing  upon  them,  and  he  puffed  away 
at  night  when  all  other  honest  people  were 
in  bed.  Though  this  afforded  much  pleasure 
to  Jacob,  it  was  not  so  well  relished  by  his 
neighbours. 

In  a  cavern  of  the  mountain  upon  which 
Jacob  generally  took  his  seat  lived  a  dwarf, 
who,  at  the  christenings  and  weddings  of  the 
surrounding  country,  made  himself  very  useful 
by  lending  the  people  knives  and  pewter  plates. 
Wherever  he  found  a  good  reception  the  dwarf 
provsd  very  friendly,  and  was  well  liked  by  all. 
Now  to  this  dwarf,  the  eternal  puffing  that 
went  on  above  his  head  became  very  tiresome; 
he  therefore  one  day  took  his  way  up  the  moun- 
tain, and  with  much  politeness  requested  the 
shepherd  to  give  up  his  music  for  a  little;  but 
Jacob,  casting  a  contemptuous  look  on  the 
diminutive  figure  before  him,  insolently  an- 
swered, "  What  right  have  you  to  command 
me?  And  what  does  it  signify  to  me  though 
your  head  should  ache  again  when  I  blow  my 
pipes  ? "  And  from  this  time  Jacob  blew  away 
more  furiously  at  his  bagpipes  than  ever. 

The  dwarf  resolved  on  revenge,  but  concealed 
his  anger  under  the  mask  of  friendship,  and 
strove  to  win  by  degrees  the  confidence  of  the 
shepherd.  He  soon  succeeded  in  this;  for  he 
had  wit  enough  to  praise  the  exq  uisite  melody 
of  his  pipes,  and  gradually  wrought  himself 
into  his  full  confidence,  entertaining  him  with 
a  thousand  merry  stories,  for  the  sake  of  listen- 
ing to  which  the  shepherd  would  sometimes 
forget  his  darling  pipes  for  half  a  day.  At  last 
the  dwarf  invited  the  shepherd  to  a  party  at 
which  he  promised  him  a  great  deal  of  pleasure. 
"  Knight  Fegesack,  who  lives  in  yonder  castle," 
said  he,  "celebrates  his  wedding  to-morrow; 
he  once  set  his  dogs  after  me  to  hound  me 
from  his  court  when  carrying  some  plates  to 
his,  servant  to  help  at  a  christening.  There 
will  be  gathered  together  those  great  people  of 
the  country  who  look  with  such  contempt  upon 
us  and  our  acorns;  we  will  go  thither,  and  give 
them  a  little  sauce  to  their  mirth.  Here, 
Jacob,  is  an  invisible  cap:  if  you  put  it  on 
your  head  nobody  will  be  able  to  see  you, 
though  you  see  everything  that  is  going  on 


i  From  Foreign  Tales  and  Tradition*,  translated  by 
George  Godfrey  Cunningham. 


around  you.  Try  its  virtues  at  home,  and 
leave  the  rest  to  me;  only  clean  out  that  bag 
you  have  got  there,  for,  unless  1  am  sadly  de- 
ceived, you  will  soon  have  occasion  to  fill  it 
with  something  better." 

Jacob  took  the  wonderful  cap  from  the 
dwarf,  and  made  an  attempt  to  try  its  virtue 
even  before  he  reached  his  hut.  Well,  the 
sheep  came  running  against  him,  and  not  even 
his  own  children  could  find  him  out  when  he 
called  them  by  name  with  the  cap  on  his  head. 
He  now  gave  himself  implicitly  up  to  the  di- 
rection of  the  dwarf. 

The  day  afterwards  Jacob  and  the  dwarf  set 
out  with  their  caps  on  their  heads,  and  two 
empty  wallets  under  their  arms,  to  the  castle 
of  the  knight.  During  the  bridal  ceremony 
they  placed  themselves  upon  the  large  round 
table,  around  which  the  bridegroom  and  bride 
and  the  principal  guests  were  to  sit.  The 
dwarf  then  instructed  the  tittering  shepherd 
in  the  part  he  was  to  perform. 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  the  whole  company 
entered  the  room  in  pairs,  and  all  took  the 
places  which  were  pointed  out  to  them  accord- 
ing to  their  several  dignities,  little  suspecting 
the  presence  of  any  other  guests. 

And  now  the  frolic  began.  The  invisible 
dwarf  pulled  out  the  pins  which  fastened  the 
myrtle  garland  on  the  bride's  head,  and  Jacob 
pushed  a  large  dish  out  of  the  hand  of  the 
butler  which  splashed  the  gravy  over  the  scold- 
ing guests.  Meanwhile  the  bridal  wreath  fell 
from  the  head  of  the  bride— a  bad  omen,  which 
might  well  wrinkle  the  brow  of  the  old  ladies, 
and  set  the  younger  ones  a  whispering. 

A  pause  ensued,  in  which  the  guests,  who 
waited  the  filling  of  the  bumpers  to  resume 
the  conversation,  set  their  jaws  briskly  in 
motion. 

But,  good  saints  defend  us  !  What  was  the 
surprise  of  the  whole  company  when,  on  the 
appearance  of  the  second  course,  they  stretched 
their  hands  out  towards  the  delicates — scarcely 
had  they  got  a  morsel  on  their  forks  and  raised 
it  to  their  mouths  ere  it  was  snatched  away  by 
the  dwarf  or  by  Jacob,  who  crammed  it  with 
much  laughter  into  their  invisible  wallets. 
The  guests  opened  their  eyes  wider  and  wider 
— their  faces  lengthened  more  and  more — a 
silence,  like  that  of  midnight  in  a  cemetery, 
reigned  throughout  the  whole  room — Knives, 
mouths,  jaws,  were  laid  at  rest,  while  each 
gaped  in  blank  astonishment  upon  his  neigh- 
bour. Flagon  after  flagon,  cup  after  cup,  now 
disappeared  from  the  table,  and  still  the  thief 
remained  invisible!  Well  might  the  hair  of 
the  guests  now  begin  to  rise  on  end;  every- 


MAY  MORNING  AT  RAVENNA, 


341 


where  all  was  silent  as  death,  not  a  sound  was 
heard  but  the  chattering  of  teeth. 

How  they  might  best  make  their  way  out  of 
the  enchanted  room,  or  hide  themselves  under 
the  table,  became  now  a  question  with  the 
horror-stricken  guests.  Most  of  them  were 
about  to  adopt  the  latter  alternative  when  the 
dwarf,  having  suddenly  snatched  the  cap  from 
the  head  of  his  companion,  all  at  once  the  cul- 
prit stood  revealed  to  their  astonished  sight, 
sitting  upon  his  heels,  with  each  arm  supported 
by  a  well-filled  wallet. 

The  deathlike  silence  now  gave  place  to  the 
most  outrageous  uproar;  every  arm  and  every 
tongue  was  again  in  motion,  while  Jacob, 
with  his  head  hanging  down  like  a  broken 
reed,  was  dragged  away,  under  a  thousand 
curses,  towards  a  dark  dungeon,  where  serpents 
and  newts  crawled  about,  there  to  starve  beside 
his  emptied  wallets. 

They  were  just  about  to  lower  the  unfortu- 
nate shepherd  into  this  loathsome  place,  and 
all  around  stood  the  guests  mocking  and  jeer- 
ing the  trembling  rustic,  when  lo !  the  invisible 
dwarf  approaches  the  half  dead  shepherd,  claps 
the  cap  again  on  his  head,  and  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  the  prisoner  disappears. 

The  spectators  stood  there  as  if  changed  into 
as  many  stones,  with  faces  as  long  as  a  yard, 
for  the  full  space  of  an  hour,  without  bethink- 
ing themselves  either  of  eating  or  drinking  or 
the  merriment  of  the  wedding.  And  there  they 
might  have  been  standing  to  this  hour  had  not 
the  dwarf,  compassionating  their  blank  amaze- 
ment, taken  off  his  cap  and  revealed  himself 
for  a  minute's  space  in  his  true  form.  "  Now, 
Sir  Knight,"  said  he,  "do  not  hound  me  again 
with  your  dogs  out  of  your  castle-yard;  and 
you,  Jacob,  I  hope  you  will  in  future  put  your 
bagpipes  a  little  while  aside  when  I  politely 
ask  that  favour  of  you." 

The  guests  now  tumbled  over  one  another, 
and  scrambled  out  of  the  house  where  the  mys- 
terious dwarf  had  appeared. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BACCHUS. 

I  had  a  vision  !    'Tvvas  an  Indian  vale 
Whose  sides  were  all  with  rosy  thickets  crown'd, 
That  never  felt  the  biting  winter  gale;— 
And  soon  was  heard  a  most  delicious  sound ; 
And  to  its  music  danced  a  nymph  embrown'd, 
Leading  a  lion  in  a  silken  twine, 
That  with  his  yellow  mane  would  sweep  the  ground, 
Then  on  his  rider  fawn— a  hoy  divine! 
While  on  his  foaming  lips  a  nymph  shower'd  purple  wine. 

CROLY. 


MAY  MORNING  AT  RAVENNA. 

[James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt,  born  at  Sonthgate, 
Middlesex,  ls>tii  October,  1784;  died  iu  London,  2ath 
August,  1859.  As  a  poet,  critic,  and  novelist  he  has 
won  a  prominent  place  in  the  standard  literature  of  our 
century.  As  one  of  the  stanchest  combatants  for  the 
liberty  of  thought  and  speech,  his  name  \s  amongst  th« 
foremost  in  the  history  of  modern  progress.  He  was 
for  some  time  a  clerk  in  the  war-office,  and  resigned  that 
post  in  1808  to  become  joint  editor  with  his  brother 
John,  of  the  Examiner  newspaper,  which  they  estab- 
lished in  that  year.  An  articie  upon  the  conduct  of  the 
Prince  Regent  in  which  he  was  satirically  called  an 
"Adonis  of  fifty"  (22d  March,  18 12),  led  to  a  government 
prosecution.  The  brothers  were  imprisoned  and.  fined 
£.300  each.  After  his  release,  and  until  nearly  the  close 
of  his  life.  Leigh  Hunt  continued  to  work  assiduously 
at  poem,  essay,  and  story.  In  1844  the  son  of  the  poet 
Shelley  gave  him  an  annuity  of  £K'0 ;  and  in  1847 
government  awarded  him  a  pension  of  £200.  His  first 
book  was  a  collection  of  poems  written  between  the 
ages  of  twelve  and  sixteen,  and  issued  under  the  title 
of  Juvenilia.  His  principal  works  are:  The  Hmry  nf 
Rimini,  The  Descent  </  Liberty,  and  The  Featt  of  (lie 
Poets  (written  in  prison);  Captain  Sword  and  Captain  Pen; 
Sir  Ralph  Eghtr,  a  novel ;  A  Jar  of  Honey  from  Mmint 
Hybla;  numerous  essays,  and  an  autobiography  in  three 
volumes.  The  following  is  from  the  poem  of  Rimini.] 

The  sun  is  up,  and  'tis  a  morn  of  May 

Round  old  Ravenna's  clear-shown  towers  and  bay. 

A  morn,  the  loveliest  which  the  year  has  seen, 

Last  of  the  spring,  yet  fresh  with  all  its  green; 

For  a  warm  eve,  and  gentle  rains  at  night 

Have  left  a  sparkling  welcome  for  the  light, 

And  there's  a  crystal  clearness  all  about ; 

The  leaves  are  sharp,  the  distant  hills  look  out ; 

A  balmy  briskness  comes  upon  the  breeze ; 

The  smoke  goes  dancing  from  the  cottage  trees! 

And  when  you  listen  you  may  hear  a  coil 

Of  bubbling  springs  about  the  grassy  soil ; 

And  all  the  si-ene,  in  short — sky,  earth,  and  pea, 

Breathes  like  a  bright  eyed  face,  that  laughs  out  openly. 

Tis  nature,  full  of  spirits,  waked  and  springing: — 

The  birds  to  the  delicious  time  are  singing, 

Darting  with  freaks  and  snatches  up  and  down. 

Where  the  light  woods  go  seaward  from  the  town; 

While  happy  faces,  striking  through  the  green 

Of  leafy  roads,  at  every  turn  are  seen  ; 

And  the  far  ships,  lifting  their  sails  of  white 

Like  joyful  hands,  come  up  with  ecattery  light, 

Come  gleaming  up,  true  to  the  wished  for  day. 

And  chase  the  whistling  brine  and  swirl  into  the  1  ay. 

Already  in  the  streets  the  stir  grows  loud, 

Of  expectation  and  a  bustling  crowd. 

With  feet  and  voice  the  gathering  hum  contends. 

The  deep  talk  heaves,  the  ready  laugh  ascends , 

Callings,  and  clapping  doors,  and  curs  unite, 

And  shouts  from  mere  exuberance  of  delight, 

And  armed  bands,  making  important  way, 

Gallant  and  grave,  the  lords  of  holiday, 

And  nodding  neighbours,  greeting  as  they  ran, 

And  pilgrims,  chanting  in  the  morning  sun. 


342 


MEDICINE  AND  MORALS. 


MEDICINE  AND  MORALS. 

[Isaac  D'Israeli,  bora  in  Enfield,  1766;  died  at  Brad- 
eiiham,  Buckinghamshire,  19th  January,  1S4S.  He  was 
the  descendant  of  a  family  of  Spanish  Jews.  After  pro- 
ducing various  scraps  of  poetry  and  romance.he  published 
in  l"yt)  a  small  volume  of  the  Curiosities  of  Literature. 
The  success  of  the  work  induced  him  to  pursue  his  re- 
searches in  the  direction  of  "Curiosities,"  and  in  the 
course  of  various  editions  the  work  had  increased  to  six 
times  its  original  bulk.  The  Calamities  of  Authott,  TUe 
Quarrels  of  Authors,  The  Amenitiig  of  Literature,  and 
The  Cariosities  are  his  chief  works.  He  was  the  father 
of  the  Right  Hon.  Benjamin  D  Israeli,  the  statesman 
and  novelist  ] 

A  stroke  of  personal  ridicule  is  levelled  at 
Dryden,  when  Bayes  informs  us  of  his  prepara- 
tions for  a  course  of  study  by  a  course  of  medi- 
cine! "When  I  have  a  grand  design,"  says 
he,  "I  ever  take  physic  and  let  blood;  for 
when  you  would  have  pure  swiftness  of  thought, 
and  fiery  flights  of  fancy,  you  must  have  a  care 
of  the  pensive  part;  in  fine,  you  must  purge 
the  belly!"  Such  was  really  the  practice  of 
the  poet,  as  La  Motte,  who  was  a  physician,  in- 
forms us,  and  in  his  medical  character  did  not 
perceive  that  ridicule  in  the  subject  which  the 
wits  and  most  readers  unquestionably  have 
enjoyed.  The  wits  here  were  as  cruel  against 
truth  as  against  Dryden;  for  we  must  still  con- 
sider this  practice,  to  use  their  own  words,  as 
"an  excellent  recipe  for  writing."  Among  other 
philosophers,  one  of  the  most  famous  disputants 
of  antiquity,  Carneades,  was  accustomed  to 
take  copious  doses  of  white  hellebore,  a  great 
aperient,  as  a  preparation  to  refute  the  dogmas 
of  the  stoics.  Dryden's  practice  was  neither 
whimsical  nor  peculiar  to  the  poet;  he  was  of  a 
full  habit,  and,  no  doubt,  had  often  found  by 
experience  the  beneficial  effects  without  being 
aware  of  the  cause,  which  is  nothing  less  than 
the  reciprocal  influence  of  mind  and  body! 

This  simple  fact  is,  indeed,  connected  with 
one  of  the  most  important  inquiries  in  the  his- 
tory of  man;  the  laws  which  regulate  the  in- 
visible union  of  the  soul  with  the  body :  in  a 
word,  the  inscrutable  mystery  of  our  being! — 
a  secret,  but  an  undoubted  intercourse,  which 
probably  must  ever  elude  our  perceptions.  The 
combination  of  metaphysics  with  physics  has 
only  been  productive  of  the  wildest  fairy  tales 
among  philosophers:  with  one  party  the  soul 
seems  to  pass  away  in  its  last  puff  of  air,  while 
man  seems  to  perish  in  "dust  to  dust;"  the 
other  as  successfully  gets  rid  of  our  bodies 
altogether,  by  denying  the  existence  of  matter. 
We  are  not  certain  that  mind  and  matter  are 


distinct  existences,  since  the  one  may  be  only 
a  modification  of  the  other;  however  this  great 
mystery  be  imagined,  we  shall  find  with  Dr. 
Gregory,  in  his  lectures  "  on  the  duties  and 
qualifications  of  a  physician,"  that  it  forms  an 
equally  necessary  inquiry  in  the  aciences  of 
morals  and  of  medicine. 

Whether  we  consider  the  vulgar  distinction 
of  mind  and  body  as  a  union,  or  as  a  modified 
existence,  no  philosopher  denies  that  a  recipro- 
cal action  takes  place  between  our  moral  and 
physical  condition.  Of  these  sympathies,  like 
many  other  mysteries  of  nature,  the  cause 
remains  occult  while  the  effects  are  obvious. 
This  close  yet  inscrutable  association,  this  con- 
cealed correspondence  of  parts  seemingly  un- 
connected; in  a  word,  this  reciprocal  influence 
of  the  mind  and  the  body,  has  long  fixed  the 
attention  of  medical  and  metaphysical  in- 
quirers; the  one  having  the  care  of  our  exterior 
organization,  the  other  that  of  the  interior. 
Can  we  conceive  the  mysterious  inhabitant  as 
forming  a  part  of  its  own  habitation?  The 
tenant  and  the  house  are  so  inseparable,  that 
in  striking  at  any  part  of  the  building,  you 
inevitably  reach  the  dweller.  If  the  mind  is 
disordered,  we  may  often  look  for  its  seat  in 
some  corporeal  derangement.  Often  are  our 
thoughts  disturbed  by  a  strange  irritability, 
which  we  do  not  even  pretend  to  account  for. 
This  state  of  the  body,  called  the  fidgets,  is  a 
disorder  to  which  the  ladies  are  particularly 
liable.  A  physician  of  my  acquaintance  was 
earnestly  entreated  by  a  female  patient  to  give 
a  name  to  her  unknown  complaints ;  this  he 
found  no  difficulty  to  do,  as  he  is  a  sturdy 
asserter  of  the  materiality  of  our  nature;  he 
declared  that  her  disorder  was  ATMOSPHERICAL. 
It  was  the  disorder  of  her  frame  under  damp 
weather,  which  was  reacting  on  her  mind; 
and  physical  means,  by  operating  on  her  body, 
might  be  applied  to  restore  her  to  her  half-lost 
senses.  Our  imagination  is  highest  when  our 
stomach  is  not  overloaded;  in  spring  than  in 
winter;  in  solitude  than  amidst  company;  and 
in  an  obscured  light  than  in  the  blaze  and  heat 
of  the  noon.  In  all  these  cases  the  body  is 
evidently  acted  on  and  reacts  on  the  mind. 
Sometimes  our  dreams  present  us  with  images 
of  our  restlessness,  till  we  recollect  that  the 
seat  of  our  brain  may  perhaps  lie  in  our 
stomach,  rather  than  on  the  pineal  gland  of 
Descartes;  and  that  the  most  artificial  logic  to 
make  us  somewhat  reasonable,  may  be  swal- 
lowed with  "the  blue  pill,"  or  any  other  in 
vogue.  Our  domestic  happiness  often  depends 
on  the  .state  of  our  biliary  and  digestive  organs, 
and  the  little  disturbances  of  conjugal  life  may 


MEDICINE  AND  MORALS. 


343 


he  more  efficaciously  cured  by  the  physician 
tuan  by  the  moralist;  for  a  sermon  misapplied 
will  never  act  so  directly  as  a  sharp  medicine. 
The  learned  Gaubius,  an  eminent  professor  of 
medicine  at  Leyden,  who  called  himself  "pro- 
fessor of  the  passions,"  gives  the  case  of  a  lady 
of  too  inflammable  a  constitution,  whom  her 
husband,  unknown  to  herself,  had  gradually 
reduced  to  a  model  of  decorum,  by  phlebotomy. 
Her  complexion,  indeed,  lost  the  roses,  which 
some  perhaps  had  too  wantonly  admired  for 
the  repose  of  her  conj  ugal  physician. 

The  art  of  curing  moral  disorders  by  cor- 
poreal means  has  not  yet  been  brought  into 
general  practice,  although  it  is  probable  that 
some  quiet  sages  of  medicine  have  made  use  of 
it  on  some  occasions.  The  Leyden  professor 
we  have  just  alluded  to,  delivered  at  the  univer- 
sity a  discourse  "on  the  management  and  cure 
of  the  disorders  of  the  mind  by  application  to 
the  body."  Descartes  conjectured,  that  as  the 
mind  seems  so  dependent  on  the  disposition  of 
the  bodily  organs,  if  any  means  can  be  found 
to  render  men  wiser  and  more  ingenious  than 
they  have  been  hitherto,  such  a  method  might 
be  sought  from  the  assistance  of  medicine. 
The  sciences  of  MORALS  and  MEDICINE  will 
therefore  be  found  to  have  a  more  intimate  con- 
nection than  has  been  suspected.  Plato  thought 
that  a  man  must  have  natural  dispositions 
towards  virtue  to  become  virtuous;  that  it 
cannot  be  educated — you  cannot  make  a  bad 
man  a  good  man ;  which  he  ascribes  to  the  evil 
dispositions  of  the  body,  as  well  as  to  a  bad 
education. 

There  are,  unquestionably,  constitutional 
moral  disorders  ;  some  good  -  tempered  but 
passionate  persons  have  acknowledged  that 
they  cannot  avoid  those  fits  to  which  they 
are  liable,  and  which,  they  say,  they  always 
suffered  "from  a  child."  If  they  arise  from 
too  great  a  fulness  of  blood,  is  it  not  cruel  to 
upbraid  rather  than  to  cure  them,  which 
might  easily  be  done  by  taking  away  their 
redundant  humours,  and  thus  quieting  the 
most  passionate  man  alive?  A  moral  patient, 
who  allows  his  brain  to  be  disordered  by  the 
fumes  of  liquor,  instead  of  being  suffered  to 
be  a  ridiculous  being,  might  have  opiates  pre- 
scribed ;  for  in  laying  him  asleep  as  soon  as 
possible,  you  remove  the  cause  of  his  madness. 
There  are  crimes  for  which  men  are  hanged, 
but  of  which  they  might  easily  have  been 
cured  by  physical  means.  Persons  out  of 
their  senses  with  love,  by  throwing  them- 
selves into  a  river,  and  being  dragged  out 
nearly  lifeless,  have  recovered  their  senses,  and 
lost  their  bewildering  passion.  Submersion 


was  discovered  to  be  a  cure  for  some  mental 
disorders,  by  altering  the  state  of  the  body,  as 
Van  Helmont  notices  "was  happily  practised 
in  England."  With  the  circumstance  this 
sage  of  chemistry  alludes  to  I  am  unacquainted ; 
but  this  extraordinary  practice  was  certainly 
known  to  the  Italians;  for  in  one  of  the  tales 
of  Poggio  we  find  a  mad  doctor  of  Milan,  who 
was  celebrated  for  curing  lunatics  and  demoniacs 
in  a  certain  time.  His  practice  consisted  in 
placing  them  in  a  great  high-walled  court- 
yard, in  the  midst  of  which  there  was  a  deep 
well,  full  of  water  cold  as  ice.  When  a  demo- 
niac was  brought  to  this  physician,  he  had  the 
patient  bound  to  a  pillar  in  the  well,  till  the 
water  ascended  to  the  knees,  or  higher,  and 
even  to  the  neck,  as  he  deemed  their  malady 
required.  In  their  bodily  pain  they  appeared 
to  have  fo  got  their  melancholy ;  thus  by  the 
terrors  of  the  repetition  of  cold  water,  a  man. 
appears  to  have  been  frightened  into  his  senses! 
A  physician  has  informed  me  of  a  remaikable 
case:  a  lady  with  a  disordered  mind  resoived 
on  death,  and  swallowed  much  more  than  liar;- 
a-pint  of  laudanum ;  she  closed  her  curtains  in 
the  evening,  took  a  farewell  of  her  attendants, 
and  flattered  herself  she  should  never  awaken 
from  her  sleep.  In  the  morning,  however, 
notwithstanding  this  incredible  dose,  she  awoke 
in  the  agonies  of  death.  By  the  usual  means 
she  was  enabled  to  get  rid  of  the  poison  she 
had  so  largely  taken,  and  not  only  recovered 
her  life,  but,  what  is  more  extraordinary,  her 
perfect  senses  !  The  physician  conjectures  that 
it  was  the  influence  of  her  disordered  mind 
over  her  body  which  prevented  this  vast  quan- 
tity of  laudanum  from  its  usual  action  by  ter- 
minating in  death. 

Moral  vices  or  infirmities,  which  originate  "* 
in  the  state  of  the  body,  may  be  cured  by  topi- 
cal applications.  Precepts  and  ethics  in  such 
cases,  if  they  seem  to  produce  a  momentary 
cure,  have  only  mowed  the  weeds,  whose  roots 
lie  in  the  soil.  It  is  only  by  changing  the  soil 
itself  that  we  can  eradicate  these  evils.  The 
senses  are  five  porches  for  the  physician  to 
enter  into  the  mind,  to  keep  it  in  repair.  By 
altering  the  state  of  the  body,  we  are  changing 
that  of  the  mind,  whenever  the  defects  of  the 
mind  depend  on  those  of  the  organization. 
The  mind,  or  soul,  however  distinct  its  being 
fr»m  the  body,  is  disturbed  or  excited,  inde- 
pendent of  its  volition,  by  the  mechanical 
impulses  of  the  body.  A  man  becomes  stupi- 
fied  when  the  circulation  of  the  blood  is  im- 
peded in  the  viscera;  he  acts  more  from 
instinct  than  reflection ;  the  nervous  fibres  are 
too  relaxed  or  too  tense,  and  he  finds  a  did- 


314 


THE  SCOTTISH  SACRAMENTAL  SABBATH. 


euity  in  moving  them  ;  if  you  heighten  his 
sensations,  you  awaken  new  ideas  in  this  stupid 
being  ;  and  as  we  cure  the  stupid  by  increasing 
his  sensibility,  we  may  believe  that  a  more 
vivacious  fancy  may  be  promised  to  those  who 
possess  one,  when  the  mind  and  the  body  play 
together  in  one  harmonious  accord.  Prescribe 
the  bath,  frictions,  and  fomentations,  and 
though  it  seems  a  roundabout  way,  you  get  at 
the  brains  by  his  feet.  A  literary  man,  from 
long  sedentary  habits,  could  not  overcome  his 
fits  of  melancholy,  till  his  phys.cian  doubled 
his  daily  quantity  of  wine;  and  the  learned 
Henry  Stephens,  after  a  severe  ague,  had  such 
a  cli.sgust  of  books,  the  mo.^t  beloved  objects  of 
his  whole  life,  that  the  very  thought  of  them 
excited  terror  for  a  considerable  time.  It  is 
evident  that  the  state  of  the  body  often  indicates 
that  of  the  mind.  Insan:ty  itself  often  results 
from  some  disorder  in  the  human  machine. 
"  What  is  this  MIND,  of  which  men  appear  so 
vain?'  exclaims  Flechier.  "  If  considered 
acceding  to  its  nature,  it  is  a  fire  which  sick- 
r.2ss  und  an  accident  most  sensibly  puts  out: 
it  is  a  delicate  temperament,  which  soon  grows 
disordered;  a  happy  conformation  of  organs, 
which  wear  out ;  a  combination  and  a  certain 
motion  of  the  spirits,  which  exhaust  them- 
selves ;  it  is  the  most  lively  and  the  most 
subtle  part  of  the  soul,  which  seems  to  grow  old 
with  the  BODY." 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  some  have  attributed 
such  virtues  to  their  system  of  diet,  if  it  has 
been  found  productive  of  certain  effects  on  the 
human  body.  Cornaro  perhaps  imagined  more 
than  he  experienced ;  but  Apollonius  Tyaneus, 
when  he  had  the  credit  of  holding  an  inter- 
course with  the  devil,  by  his  presumed  gift  of 
prophecy,  defended  himself  from  the  accusa- 
tion by  attributing  his  clear  and  prescient 
views  of  things  to  the  light  aliments  he  lived 
on,  never  indulging  in  a  variety  of  food. 
"  This  mode  of  life  has  produced  such  a  perspi- 
cuity in  my  ideas,  that  I  see  as  in  a  glass  things 
past  and  future."  We  may,  therefore,  agree 
with  Bayes,  that  "for  a  sonnet  to  Amanda, 
and  the  like,  stewed  primes  only"  might  be 
sufficient;  but  for  "a  grand  design,"  nothing 
less  than  a  more  formal  and  formidable  dose. 


FROM   THE  ARABIC. 

The  morn  that  usher'd  thee  to  life,  my  child, 
Saw  thee  in  tears,  whilst  all  around  thee  smiled! 
When  sunitnon'd  hence  to  thy  eternal  sleep, 
Oh  may'st  thou  smile,  whilst  all  around  thee  weep. 


THE    SCOTTISH    SACRAMENTAL 
SABBATH. 

[James  Hislop,  born  near  Muirkirk,  Scotland,  1788; 
died  4th  December,  1827.  One  of  Scotland's  i>easant 
poets.  His  early  years  were  spent  as  a  herd-boy  to  his 
grandfather;  and  being  distant  from  any  school,  his 
elements  of  education  were  acquired  by  diligent  self- 
instruction.  He  afterwards  attended  the  parish  school 
of  Sanquhar.  Whilst  still  a  youth,  he  became  a  teacher 
in  Gi-eenock,  where  he  wrote  the  Camenndan's  Dream. 
This  poem  attracted  the  attention  of  Lord  Jeffrey,  who 
introduced  the  poet  to  Mr.  Constable,  the  publisher, 
and  in  many  waj  s  befriended  him  through  life.  Hislop 
was  for  a  short  time  a  reporter  on  the  staff  of  the  Timtg 
newspaper ;  then  teacher  of  a  London  school ;  but  he 
was  obliged  to  retire  from  both  api  ointments  on  account 
of  ill  health.  He  next  started  on  a  voyage  in  the  ca- 
pacity of  travelling  tutor  to  several  young  gentlemen ; 
and  a  visit  to  the  Cape  de  Verd  Islands  (reduced  an 
attack  of  fever  from  the  effects  of  which  he  died  in  a 
few  days.  Several  of  his  poems  were  published  in  the 
Edinburgh  Magazine,  to  which  he  also  contributed 
'"Letters  from  South  America."  The  following  poem — 
valuable  as  a  faithful  picture  of  a  national  custom— is 
said  to  have  been  suggested  by  the  commemoration  of 
the  solemn  ordinance  in  the  Sanquhar  Churchyard. 
1815.] 

The  Sabbath  morning  gilds  the  eastern  hills, 
The  swains  its  sunny  dawn  wi'  gladness  greet, 
Frae  heath-clad  hamlets,  'mong  the  muirland  rilla, 
The  dewy  mountains  climb  wi  naked  feet, 
Skiffin'  the  daisies  droukit  i"  the  weet  ; 
The  bleatin'  flocks  come  nibblin'  donn  the  brae. 
To  shadowy  pastures  screen'd  frae  summer's  heat; 
In  woods  where  tinklin'  waters  glide  away, 
'Mong  holms  o'  clover  red,  and  bright  brown  ryegrass 
hay. 

His  owes  and  lambs  brought  carefu'  frae  tbe  height, 
The  shepherd's  children  watch  them  frae  the  corn; 
On  green  sward  scented  lawn,  wi'  gowans  white, 
Frae  page  o'  pocket  psalm-book,  soil'd  and  torn, 
The  task  prepar'd.  assigu'd  for  Sabbath  morn, 
The  e  de  •  bairns  their  p  .rents  join  in  prayer; 
On«  daughter  dear,  beneath  the  flow'ry  thorn, 
Kneels  down  apart  her  spirit  to  prepare. 
On  this  her  first  approach  the  sacred  cup  to  share 

The  social  chat  wi'  solemn  converse  mix'd, 
At  early  hour  they  finish  their  repast, 
The  i  lions  sire  rejieats  full  many  a  text 
Of  sacra  mental  Sabbaths  long  gone  past. 
To  see  her  little  family  featly  dress'd 
The  carefu'  matron  feels  a  mother's  pride, 
Gie's  this  a  linen  shirt,  gie's  that  a  vest ; 
The  frugal  father's  frowns  their  finery  chide, 
He  prays  that  Heaven  their  souls  may  wedding  roots 
provide. 


THE  SCOTTISH  SACRAMENTAL  SABBATH. 


345 


The  sisters  buskit,  seek  the  garden  walk, 
To  gather  flowers,  or  watch  the  warning  bell, 
Sweet-william,  dangliii'  dewy  frae  the  stalk, 
Is  mix  d  wi'  mountain-daisies,  rich  in  smell, 
Green  sweet  briar  sprigs,  and  daisies  frae  the  dell, 
Where  Spango  shepherds  pa>s  the  lane  abode, 
An'  Wiinlock  miners  cross  the  muirland  fell; 
Then  down  the  sunny  winding  muirland  road, 
The  little  pastoral  band  approach  the  house  of  God. 

Streams  of  my  native  mountains,  oh !  how  oft 
That  Sabbath  morning  walk  in  youth  was  mine; 
Yet  fancy  hears  the  kirk-bell,  sweet  and  soft, 
Ring  o'er  the  darkling  woods  o'  dewy  pine ; 
How  oft  the  wood-rose  wild  and  scented  thyme 
I've  stoop''d  to  pull  while  passing  on  my  way ; 
But  now  in  sunny  regions  south  the  line, 
Nae  birks  nor  broom  flow'ns  shade  the  summer  brae, — 
Alas!  I  can  but  dream  of  Scotland's  Sabbath-day. 

But  dear  that  cherish' d  dream  I  still  behold: 

The  ancient  kirk,  the  plane  trees  o'er  it  spread, 

And  seated  'mong  the  graves,  the  old,  the  young, 

As  once  in  summer  days,  for  ever  fled. 

To  deck  my  dream  the  grave  gives  up  its  dead: 

The  pale  precentor  sings  as  then  he  sung, 

The  long-lost  pastor  wi'  the  hoary  head 

Pours  forth  his  pious  counsels  to  the  young. 

And  dear  ones  from  the  dust  again  to  life  are  sprung. 

Lost  friends  return  from  realms  beyond  the  main, 
And  boyhood's  best  belov'd  ones  all  are  there; 
The  blanks  in  family  circles  fill'd  again  ; 
No  seat  seems  empty  round  the  house  of  prayer. 
Tlie  sound  of  psalms  has  vanish' d  in  the  air, 
Borne  up  to  heaven  upon  the  mountain  breeze. 
The  patriarchal  priest  wi'  silvery  hair, 
In  tent  erected  'neath  the  fresh  green  trees, 
Spreads  forth  the  book  of  God  with  holy  pride,  and 
sees 

The  eyes  of  circling  thousands  on  him  fix'd. 
The  kirkyard  scarce  contains  the  mingling  mass 
Of  kindred  congregations  round  him  mix'd; 
Close  seated  on  the  gravestones  and  the  grass, 
Some  crowd  the  garden-walls,  a  wealthier  class 
On  chairs  and  benches  round  the  tent  draw  near; 
The  poor  man  prays  far  distant ;  and  alas! 
Some  seated  by  the  graves  of  parents  dear, 
Among  the  fresh  green  flow'rs  let  fall  a  silent  tear. 

Sublime  the  text  he  chooseth :  "Who  is  this 
From  Edom  conies?  in  garments  dy'd  in  blood. 
Travelling  in  greatness  of  His  strength  to  bless, 
Treading  the  wine-press  of  Almighty  God." 
Perchance  the  theme,  that  Mighty  One  who  rode 
Forth  leader  of  the  armies  cloth  d  in  light, 
Around  whose  fiery  forehead  rainbows  glow'd, 
Beneath  whose  head  heav'n  trembled   angels  bright. 
Their  shining  ranks  arrang'd  around  his  head  of  white. 


Behold  the  contrast,  Christ,  the  King  of  kings, 

A  houseless  wanderer  in  a  world  below; 

Faint,  fisting  by  the  desert  springs. 

From  youth  a  man  of  mourning  and  of  woe. 

The  birds  have  nests  on  summers  blooming  ixmgh, 

Tlie  foxes  on  the  mountain  find  a  bed  ; 

But  mankind's  F.iend  fuiiutl  every  man  his  fue, 

His  heart  with  anguish  in  the  garden  bled, 

lie,  peaceful  like  a  lamb,  was  to  the  slaughter  UU. 

Tlie  action-sermon  ended,  tables  fenc'd. 
While  elders  forth  the  sacred  symbols  bring, 
The  day's  more  solemn  service  now  coinmenc'd ; 
To  heaven  is  wafted  on  devotion's  wing. 
The  psalms  these  entering  to  the  altar  sing, 
"I'll  of  salvation  take  the  cup,  I'll  call 
With  trembling  on  the  name  of  Zion's  King; 
His  courts  I'll  enter,  at  His  footstool  fall, 
And  pay  my  early  vows  before  His  people  all." 

Behold  the  crowded  tables  clad  in  white, 
Extending  far  above  the  flowery  graves; 
A  blessing  on  the  bread  and  wine  cup  bright 
With  lifted  hands  the  holy  pastor  craves, 
The  summer's  sunny  breeze  his  white  hair  waves, 
His  soul  is  with  his  Saviour  in  the  skies; 
The  hallow'd  loaf  he  breaks,  and  gives 
The  symbols  to  the  elders  t-eated  nigh, 
Take,  eat  the  bread  of  life,  scut  down  from  heaven  oil 
high. 

He  in  like  manner  also  lifted  up 
The  flagon  fill'd  with  consecrated  wine, 
Drink,  drink  ye  all  of  it,  salvation's  cup, 
Memorial  mournful  of  His  love  divine. 
Then  solemn  pauseth ;     save  the  rustling  pine, 
Or  plane  tree  boughs,  no  sounds  salute  mine  ears; 
In  silence  pass'd,  the  silver  vessels  shine. 
Devotion's  Sabbath  dreams  from  bygone  years 
Return 'd,  till  many  an  eye  is  moist  with  springing 
tears. 

Ajjain  the  preacher  breaks  the  solemn  pause. 

Lift  up  your  eyes  to  Calvary's  mountain — see. 

In  mourning  veil'd,  the  mid  day  sun  withdraws, 

While  dies  the  Saviour  bleeding  on  the  tree; 

Bnt  hark!  the  st-irs  again  sing  jubilee, 

With  anthems  heaven's  armies  hail  their  King, 

Ascenil  in  glory  from  the  grave  set  free ; 

Triumphant  see  Him  soar  on  seraph's  wine. 

To  meet  His  angel  hosts  around  the  clouds  of  spring. 

Behold  His  radiant  robes  of  fleecy  light, 
Melt  into  sunny  ether  soft  and  blue ; 
Then  in  this  gloomy  world  of  tears  and  night, 
Behold  the  table  He  hath  spread  for  you. 
What  though  you  tread  affliction's  path — a  few, 
A  few  short  years  your  toils  will  all  be  o'er. 
From  Pisgah's  top  the  promis'd  country  view; 
The  happy  land  beyond  Immanuel's  shore, 
Where  Eden's  blissful  bower  blooms  green  for  ever- 
more. 


346 


LITTLE  DOMINICK. 


Come  here,  ye  houseless  wanderers,  Boothe  your  grief, 

While  faith  presents  your  Father's  lov'd  abode; 

And  here,  ye  friendless  mourners,  find  relief, 

And  dry  your  tears  in  drawing  near  to  God ; 

The  poor  may  here  lay  down  oppression's  load, 

The  rich  forget  his  crosses  and  his  care; 

Youth  enter  on  religion's  narrow  road, 

The  old  for  his  eternal  change  prepare, 

And  whosoever  will,  life's  waters  freely  share. 

How  blest  are  they  who  in  thy  courts  abide, 
Whose  strength,  whose  trust,  upon  Jehovah  stay; 
For  he  in  his  pavilion  shall  them  hide 
In  covert  safe  when  comes  the  evil  day ; 
Though  shadowy  darkness  compasseth  his  way. 
And  thick  clouds  like  a  curtain  hide  his  tnruuo; 
Not  even  through  a  glass  our  eyes  jhall  gaze 
In  brighter  worlds  his  wisdom  shall  be  shown. 
And  all  things  work  for  good  to  those  that  are  h.s  own. 

,  And  blessed  are  the  young  to  God  who  bring 
The  morning  of  their  days  in  » icrifice, 
The  heart's  young  flowers  yet  fresh  with  spring 
Send  forth  an  incense  pleasing  in  his  eyes. 
To  me,  ye  children,  hearken  and  bj  wise, 
The  prophets  died,  our  fathers  where  are  they? 
Alas!  this  fleeting  world's  delusive  joys, 
Like  morning  clouds  and  early  dews,  decay; 
Be  yours  that  better  part  that  fadeth  not  away. 

Walk  round  these  walls,  and  o'er  the  yet  green  graves 
Of  friends  whom  you  have  lov'd  let  fall  the  tear ; 
On  many  dresses  dark  deep  mourning  waves, 
For  some  in  summers  past  who  worshipp'd  here 
Around  these  tables  each  revolving  year. 
What  fleeting  generations  I  have  seen, 
Where,  where  my  youthful  friends  and  comrades  dear  ? 
Fled,  fled  away,  as  they  had  never  been, 
All  sleeping  in  the  dust  beneath  those  plane-trees 
green. 

And  some  are  seated  here,  mine  aged  friends, 
Who  round  this  table  never  more  shall  meet; 
For  him  who  bowed  with  age  before  you  stands, 
The  mourners  soon  shall  go  about  the  street ; 
Below  these  green  boughs,  shadow' d  from  the  heat, 
I've  bless'd  the  Bread  of  Life  for  threescore  years ; 
And  shall  not  many  mould'ring  'neath  my  feet, 
And  some  who  sit  around  me  now  in  tears, 
To  me  be  for  a  crown  of  joy  when  Christ  appears? 

Behold  he  comes  with  clouds,  a  kindling  flood 
Of  fiery  flame  before  his  chariot  flees, 
The  sun  in  sackloth  veil'd,  the  moon  in  blood, 
All  kindreds  of  the  earth  dismay  shall  seize, 
Like  figs  untimely  shaken  by  the  breeze  ; 
The  fix'd  stars  fall  amid  the  thunder's  roar; 
The  buried  spring  to  life  beneath  these  trees, 
A  mighty  angel  standing  on  the  shore, 
With  arms  stretch'd  forth  to  heaven,  swears  time  shall 
be  no  more  1 


The  hour  is  near,  your  robes  unspotted  keep, 
The  vows  you  now  have  sworn  are  senl'd  on  high ; 
Hark!  hark!  God's  answering  voice  in  thunders  deep, 
'Midst  waters  dark  and  thick  clouds  of  the  sky ; 
And  what  if  now  to  judgment  in  your  eye 
He  burst,  where  yonder  livid  lightnings  play. 
His  chariot  of  salvation  passing  by; 
The  great  white  throne,  tho  terrible  array 
Of  Him  before  whose  frown  the  heavens  shall  flee 
away. 

My  friend*,  how  dreadful  is  this  holy  place, 
Where  rolls  the  thick'ning  thunder,  God  is  near. 
And  though  we  cannot  see  Him  face  to  face, 
Yet  as  from  Horeb's  mount  His  voice  we  hear; 
The  angel  armies  of  the  upper  sphere 
Down  from  these  clouds  on  your  communion  gaze ; 
The  spirits  of  the  dead,  who  once  were  dear, 
Are  viewless  witnesses  of  all  your  ways ; 
Go  from  His  table  then,  with  trembling  tune  Hie 
praise. 


LITTLE  DOMINICK. 

[Maria  Edgeworth,  born  at  Black-Hoarton,  near  Ox- 
ford. 1st  January,  1707;  died  at  Edgeworthstown  Ire- 
land, 22d  May,  1849.  A  long  life  well-spent  is  the  fitting 
epitaph  of  this  gifted  lady.  Her  father,  Richard  Lo\  eli 
Edgeworth,  erected  the  first  telegraph  in  England ;  his 
life  was  devoted  to  science  and  to  the  improvement  of 
the  condition  of  his  Irish  tenantry  In  this  noble 
labour  his  daughter  was  his  energetic  and  constant 
assistant.  They  were  the  joint  authors  of  various  works 
on  education  and  character.  It  is,  however,  by  her 
moral  tales  and  novels,  illustrative  of  Irish  life,  that 
Miss  Edgeworth  is  most  widely  known.  Civile  Racl-- 
rent,  Belinda,  Helen,  and  Talef  o.fFa>hionable  Life,  are  the 
titles  of  a  few  of  her  most  important  works.  To  these 
Scott  said  he  was  indebted  for  the  suggestion  that  he 
might  do  for  Scotland  something  "of  the  same  kind 
with  that  which  Miss  Edgeworth  had  achieved  lor  Ire- 
land ;" — something  that  would  tend  to  procure  for  h:s 
countrymen  "sympathy  for  their  virtues,  and  indul- 
gence for  their  foibles."  Her  career  as  a  novelist  Ueg;m 
in  1801  with  Cattle  Maelrent.] 

Little  Dominick  was  born  at  Fort  fieilly,  in 
Ireland,  and  bred  nowhere  till  his  tenth  year; 
when  he  was  sent  to  Wales,  to  learn  manners, 
and  grammar,  at  the  school  of  Mr.  Owen  ap 
Davies  ap  Jenkins  ap  Jones.  This  gentlen.an 
had  reason  to  think  himself  the  greatest  of 
men;  for  he  had,  over  his  chimney-piece,  a 
well-smoked  genealogy,  duly  attested,  tracing 
his  ancestry  in  a  direct  line  up  to  Noah:  and, 
moreover,  he  was  nearly  related  to  the  learned 
etymologist,  who,  in  the  time  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, wrote  a  folio  volume  to  prove  that  the 
language  of  Adam  and  Eve  in  Paradise  was 
pure  Welsh.  With  such  causes  to  be  proud, 


LITTLE  DOMINICK. 


347 


Mr.  Owen  ap  Davies  ap  Jenkins  ap  Jones  was 
excusable  for  sometimes  seeming  to  forget  that 
a  schoolmaster  is  but  a  man.  He,  however, 
sometimes  entirely  forgot  that  a  boy  is  but  a 
boy;  and  this  happened  most  frequently  with 
respect  to  Little  Dominick. 

This  unlucky  wight  was  flogged  every  morn- 
ing by  his  master;  not  for  his  vices,  but  for 
his  vicious  constructions:  and  laughed  at  by 
his  companions  every  evening,  for  his  idio- 
matic absurdities.  They  would  probably  have 
been  inclined  to  sympathize  in  his  misfortunes, 
but  that  he  was  the  only  Irish  boy  at  school; 
and  as  he  was  at  a  distance  from  all  his  rela- 
tions, and  without  a  friend  to  take  his  part,  he 
was  a  j  ust  object  of  obloquy  and  derision.  Every 
sentence  he  spoke  was  a  bull,  every  two  words 
he  put  together  proved  a  faise  concord,  and 
every  sound  he  articulated  betrayed  the  brogue. 
Bat  as  he  possessed  some  of  the  characteristic 
boldness  of  those  who  have  been  dipped  in  the 
Shannon,  though  he  was  only  little  Dominick, 
he  showed  himself  able  and  willing  to  fight  his 
own  battles  with  the  host  of  foes  by  whom  he 
was  encompassed.  Some  of  these,  it  was  said, 
were  of  nearly  twice  his  stature.  This  may  be 
exaggerated:  but  it  is  certain  that  our  hero 
sometimes  ventured,  with  sly  Irish  humour,  to 
revenge  himself  on  his  most  powerful  tyrant, 
by  mimicking  the  Welsh  accent,  in  which  Mr. 
Owen  ap  Jones  said  to  him — "Cot  pless  me, 
you  plockit,  and  shall  I  never  learn  you  Enc- 
lish  crammar?" 

It  was  whispered  in  the  ear  of  this  Dionysius 
that  our  little  hero  was  a  mimic,  and  he  was 
now  treated  with  increased  severity. 

The  midsummer  holidays  approached;  but 
he  feared  that  they  would  shine  no  holidays 
for  him.  He  had  written  to  his  mother  to 
tell  her  that  school  would  break  up  on  the 
21st;  and  to  beg  an  answer,  without  fail,  by 
return  of  post:  but  no  answer  came. 

It  was  now  nearly  two  months  since  he  had 
heard  from  his  dear  mother,  or  any  of  his 
friends  in  Ireland.  His  spirits  began  to  sink 
under  the  pressure  of  these  accumulated  mis- 
fortunes: he  slept  little,  eat  less,  and  played 
not  at  all.  Indeed,  nobody  would  play  with 
him  on  equal  terms,  because  he  was  nobody's 
equal:  his  schoolfellows  continued  to  consider 
him  as  a  being,  if  not  of  a  different  species,  at 
least  of  a  different  cast  from  themselves. 

Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones'  triumph  over  the  little 
Irish  plockit  was  nearly  complete,  for  the  boy's 
heart  was  almost  broken,  when  there  came  to 
the  school  a  new  scholar — 0,  how  unlike  the 
others! — His  name  was  Edwards:  he  was  the 
son  of  a  neighbouring  Welsh  gentleman;  and 


he  had  himself  the  spirit  of  a  gentleman. 
When  he  saw  how  poor  Dominick  was  perse- 
cuted, he  took  him  under  his  protection;  fought 
his  battles  with  the  Welsh  boys;  and  instead 
of  laughing  at  him  for  speaking  Irish,  he  en- 
deavoured to  teach  him  to  speak  English,  in 
his  answers  to  the  first  questions  Edwards  ever 
asked  him,  Little  Dominick  made  two  blunders, 
which  set  all  his  other  companions  in  a  roar; 
yet  Edwards  would  not  allow  them  to  be 
genuine  bulls. 

In  answer  to  the  question — "Who  is  your 
father?"  Dominick  said,  with  a  deep  sigh — "I 
have  no  father — I  am  an  orphan — I  have  only 
a  mother." 

"Have  you  any  brothers  and  sisters?" 

"No!  I  wish  I  had;  for  perhaps  they  would 
love  me,  and  not  laugh  at  me,"  said  Dominick, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes;  "but  I  have  no  brothers 
but  myself." 

One  day  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  came  into  the 
school-room  with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand, 
saying — "Here,  you  little  Irish  plockit,  here's 
a  letter  from  your  mother." 

The  little  Irish  blockhead  started  from  his 
form;  and,  throwing  his  grammar  on  the  floor, 
leaped  up  higher  than  he  or  any  boy  in  the 
school  had  ever  been  seen  to  leap  before;  then, 
clapping  his  hands,  he  exclaimed — "A  letter 
from  my  mother!  And  will  I  hear  the  letter? 
— And  will  I  see  her  once  more? — And  will  I 
go  home  these  holidays? — 0,  then  I  will  be 
too  happy!" 

"  There's  no  tanger  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Owen 
ap  Jones;  "for  your  mother,  like  a  wise  ooman, 
writes  me  here,  that,  py  the  atvice  of  your 
cardian,  to  oom  she  is  going  to  be  married, 
she  will  not  pring  you  home  to  Ireland  till  I 
send  her  word  you  are  perfect  in  your  Enclish 
crammar  at  least." 

"  I  hare  my  lesson  perfect,  sir,"  said  Domi- 
nick, taking  his  grammar  up  from  the  floor; 
"will  I  say  it  now?" 

"No,  you  plockit,  you  will  not;  and  I  will 
write  your  mother  word,  you  have  broke  Pris- 
cian's  head  four  times  this  tay,  since  her  letter 
came." 

Little  Dominick,  for  the  first  time,  was  seen 
to  burst  into  tears — "Will  I  hear  the  letter? 
—  Will  I  see  my  mother? — Will  I  go  home?" 

"You  Irish  plockit!"  continued  the  relent- 
less grammarian:  "you  Irish  plockit,  will  you 
never  learn  the  difference  between  sliall  and 
will?" 

The  Welsh  boys  all  grinned,  except  Edwards, 
who  hummed  loud  enough  to  be  heard — 

"And  will  I  see  him  once  again? 
And  it  ill  I  hear  him 


34S 


LITTLE  DOMINICK. 


Many  of  the  boys  were,  unfortunately,  too 
ignorant  to  feel  the  force  of  the  quotation; 
but  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  understood  it,  turned 
on  his  heel,  and  walked  off. 

Soon  afterwards,  he  ssmmoned  Dominick  to 
his  awful  desk;  and  pointing  with  his  ruler  to 
the  following  page  in  Harris'  Hermes,  bade 
him  "reat  it,  and  understant  it,"  if  he  could. 

Little  Dominick  read,  but  could  not  under- 
stand. 

"  Then  reat  it  aloud,  you  plockit." 

Dominick  read  aloud — 

"  There  is  nothing  appears  so  clearly  an 
object  of  the  mind  or  intellect  only  as  the 
future  does:  since  we  can  find  no  place  for  its 
existence  anywhere  else:  not  but  the  same,  if 
we  consider,  is  equally  true  of  the  past — . " 

"Well,  co  on — What  stops  the  plockit? — 
Can't  you  reat  Enclish  now?" 

"Yes,  sir;  but  I  was  trying  to  understand  it 
— I  was  considering,  that  this  is  like  what  they 
would  call  an  Irish  bull,  if  I  had  said  it." 

Little  Dominick  could  not  explain  what  he 
meant  in  English,  that  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones 
would  understand;  and  to  punish  him  for  his 
impertinent  observation,  the  boy  was  doomed 
to  learn  all  that  Harris  and  Lowth  have  written 
to  explain  the  nature  of  shall  aiid  will. — The 
reader,  if  he  be  desirous  of  knowing  the  full 
extent  of  the  penance  enjoined,  may  consult 
Lowth's  Grammar,  p.  52,  ed.  1799;  and  Harris' 
tier  men,  p.  10,  11,  and  12,  fourth  edition. 

Undismayed  at  the  length  of  his  task,  Little 
Dominick  only  said — "I  hope,  if  I  say  it  all, 
without  missing  a  word,  you  will  not  give  my 
mother  a  bad  account  of  me  and  my  grammar 
studies,  sir?" 

"  Say  it  all  first,  without  missing  a  word, 
and  then  I  shall  see  what  I  shall  say,"  replied 
Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones. 

Even  the  encouragement  of  this  oracular 
answer  excited  the  boy's  fond  hopes  so  keenly, 
that  he  lent  his  little  soul  to  the  task;  learned 
it  perfectly;  said  it  at  night,  without  missing 
one  word,  to  his  friend  Edwards;  and  said  it 
the  next  morning,  without  missing  one  word, 
to  his  master. 

"And  now,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  looking  up, 
"will  you  write  to  my  mother? — And  shall  I 
see  her  ?  And  shall  I  go  home  ?  " 

"  Tell  me,  first,  whether  you  understand  all 
this  that  you  have  learned  so  cliply?"  said 
Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones. 

That  was  more  than  his  bond.  Our  hero's 
countenance  fell;  and  he  acknowledged  that 
he  did  not  understand  it  perfectly. 

"  Then  I  cannot  write  a  coot  account  of  you 
and  your  crammer  studies  to  your  mother;  my 


conscience  coes  against  it!"  said  the  conscien- 
tious Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones. 

No  entreaties  could  move  him.  Dominick 
never  saw  the  letter  that  was  written  to  his 
mother;  but  he  felt  the  consequence.  She 
wrote  word,  this  time  punctually  by  return  of 
the  post,  that  she  was  sorry  she  could  not  send 
for  him  home  these  holidays,  as  she  had  heard 
so  bad  an  account  from  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones, 
&c.,  and  as  she  thought  it  her  duty  not  to 
interrupt  the  course  of  his  education,  especially 
his  grammar  studies. 

Little  Dominick  heaved  many  a  sigh  when 
he  saw  the  packings  up  of  all  his  schoolfellows; 
and  dropped  a  few  tears  as  he  looked  out  of 
the  window,  and  saw  them,  one  after  another, 
get  on  their  Welsh  ponies,  and  gallop  off 
towards  their  homes. 

"  I  have  no  home  to  go  to!"  said  he. 

"Yes,  you  have,"  cried  Edwards;  "and  our 
horses  are  at  the  door,  to  carry  us  there. " 

"To  Ireland?  Me!  the  horses!"  said  the 
poor  boy,  quite  bewildered. 

"No;  the  horses  cannot  carry  you  to  Ire- 
land," said  Edwards,  laughing  good-naturedly; 
"but  you  have  a  home,  now,  in  England.  I 
asked  my  father  to  let  me  bring  you  home 
with  me;  and  he  says — "Yes,"  like  a  dear, 
good  father,  and  has  sent  the  horses — Come, 
let's  away. " 

"  But  will  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  let  me  go?" 

"  Yes!  he  dare  not  refuse;  for  my  father  has 
a  living  in  his  gift,  that  Owen  ap  Jones  wants, 
and  which  he  will  not  have  if  he  do  not  change 
his  tune  to  you." 

Little  Dominick  could  not  speak  one  word, 
his  heart  was  so  full. 

No  boy  could  be  happier  than  he  was  during 
these  holidays:  "the  genial  current  of  his  soul," 
which  had  been  frozen  by  unkindness,  flowed 
with  all  its  natural  freedom  and  force. 

Whatever  his  reasons  might  be,  Mr.  Owen 
ap  Jones,  from  this  time  forward,  was  observed 
to  change  his  manners  towards  his  Irish  pupil. 
He  never  more  complained,  unjustly,  of  his 
preaking  Priscian's  head;  seldom  called  him 
Irish  plockit;  and  once,  would  have  flogged  a 
Welsh  boy  for  taking  up  this  cast-off  expression 
of  the  master's,  but  that  the  Irish  blockhead 
begged  the  culprit  off. 

Little  Dominick  sprang  forward  rapidly  in 
his  studies;  he  soon  surpassed  every  boy  in  the 
school,  his  friend  Edwards  only  excepted.  In 
process  of  time  his  guardian  removed  him  to 
a  higher  seminary  of  education.  Edwards  had 
a  tutor  at  home.  The  friends  separated.  After- 
wards, they  followed  different  professions,  in 
distant  parts  of  the  world;  and  they  neither 


LITTLE   DOMINICK. 


349 


saw,  nor  heard,  any  more  of  each  other,  for 
many  years. 

Dominick,  now  no  longer  little  Dominick, 
went  over  to  India,  as  private  secretary  to  one 
of  our  commanders-in-chief.  How  he  got  into 
this  situation,  or  by  what  gradations  he  rose 
in  the  world,  we  are  not  exactly  informed;  we 
know  only  that  he  was  the  reputed  author  of 
a  much-admired  pamphlet  on  India  affairs; 
that  the  despatches  of  the  general  to  whom  he 
was  secretary  were  remarkably  well  written; 
and  that  Dominick  O'Reilly,  Esq.,  returned 
to  England,  after  several  years'  absence,  not 
miraculously  rich,  but  with  a  fortune  equal  to 
his  wishes.  His  wishes  were  not  extravagant: 
his  utmost  ambition  was,  to  return  to  his 
native  country  with  a  fortune  that  should 
enable  him  to  live  independently  of  all  the 
world;  especially  of  some  of  his  relations,  who 
had  not  used  him  well.  His  mother  waa  no 
more ! 

On  his  first  arrival  in  London,  one  of  the 
first  things  he  did  was  to  read  the  Irish  news- 
papers. To  his  inexpressible  joy  he  saw  the 
estate  of  Fort-Reilly  advertised  to  be  sold — 
the  very  estate  which  had  formerly  belonged 
to  his  own  family.  Away  he  posted,  directly, 
to  an  attorney's  in  Cecil  Street,  who  was  em- 
powered to  dispose  of  the  land. 

When  this  attorney  produced  a  map  of  the 
well-known  demesne,  and  an  elevation  of  that 
house  in  which  he  spent  the  happiest  hours 
of  his  infancy,  his  heart  was  so  touched,  that 
he  was  on  the  point  of  paying  down  more 
for  an  old  ruin  than  a  good  new  house  would 
cost.  The  attorney  acted  honestly  by  /us  client, 
and  seiz;d  this  moment  to  exhibit  a  plan  of 
the  stabling  and  offices;  which,  as  sometimes 
is  the  case  in  Ireland,  were  in  a  style  far 
superior  to  the  dwelling-house.  Our  hero  sur- 
veyed these  with  transport.  He  rapidly  planned 
various  improvements  in  imagination,  and 
planted  certain  favourite  spots  in  the  demesne! 
During  this  time  the  attorney  was  giving 
directions  to  a  clerk  about  some  other  business; 
suddenly  the  name  of  Owen  ap  Jones  struck 
his  ear. — He  started. 

"Let  him  wait  in  the  front  parlour:  his 
money  is  not  forthcoming,"  said  the  attorney, 
"and  if  he  keep  Edwards  in  jail  till  he 
rots — 

"Edwards!  —  Good  heavens!  —  in  jail! — 
What  Edwards?"  exclaimed  our  hero. 

It  was  his  friend  Edwards ! 

The  attorney  told  him  that  Mr.  Edwards 
had  been  involved  in  great  distress,  by  taking 
on  himself  his  father's  debts,  which  had  been 
incurred  in  exploring  a  mine  in  Wales;  that, 


of  all  the  creditors,  none  had  refused  to  com- 
pound, except  a  Welsh  parson,  who  had  beea 
presented  to  his  living  by  old  Edwards;  and 
that  this  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  had  thrown  young 
Mr.  Edwards  into  jail  for  the  debt. 

"What  is  the  rascal's  demand?  He  shall 
be  paid  off  this  instant,"  cried  Dominick, 
throwing  down  the  plan  of  Fort-Reilly;  "send 
for  him  up,  and  let  me  pay  him  off  on  this 
spot. " 

"  Had  we  not  best  finish  our  business  first, 
about  the  O'Reilly  estate,  sir?"  said  the 
attorney. 

"No,  sir;  damn  the  O'Reilly  estate!"  cried 
he,  huddling  the  maps  together  on  the  desk; 
and,  taking  up  the  bank-notes,  which  he  had 
began  to  reckon  for  the  purchase  money — "I 
beg  your  pardon,  sir — if  you  knew  the  facts, 
you  would  excuse  me. — Why  does  not  this 
rascal  come  up  to  be  paid?" 

The  attorney,  thunderstruck  by  this  Hiber- 
nian impetuosity,  had  not  yet  found  time  to 
take  his  pen  out  of  his  mouth.  As  he  sat 
transfixed  in  his  arm-chair,  O'Reilly  ran  to 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  called  out,  in  a 
stentorian  voice,  "  Here,  you  Mr.  Owen  ap 
Jones;  come  up  and  be  paid  off  this  instant, 
or  you  shall  never  be  paid  at  all." 

lip-stairs  hobbled  the  old  schoolmaster,  as 
fast  as  the  gout  and  Welsh  ale  would  let  him 
— "  Cot  pless  me,  that  voice?"  he  began — 

"Where's  your  bond,  sir?"  said  the  attor- 
ney. 

"Safe  here,  Cot  be  praised!"  said  the  ter- 
rified Owen  ap  Jones,  pulling  out  of  his  bosom 
first  a  blue  pocket-handkerchief,  and  then  a 
tattered  Welsh  grammar,  which  O'Reilly  kicked 
to  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 

"  Here  is  my  pond,"  said  he,  "in  the  cram- 
mer," which  he  gathered  from  the  ground; 
then,  fumbling  over  the  leaves,  he  at  length 
unfolded  the  precious  deposit. 

O'Reilly  saw  the  bond,  seized  it,  looked  at 
the  sum,  paid  it  into  the  attorney's  hands, 
tore  the  seal  from  the  bond;  then,  without 
looking  at  old  Owen  ap  Jones,  whom  he  dared 
not  trust  himself  to  speak  to,  he  clapped  his 
hat  on  his  head,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 
He  was,  however,  obliged  to  come  back  again, 
to  ask  where  Edwards  was  to  be  found. 

"  In  the  King's  Bench  prison,  sir,"  said  the 
attorney.  "  But  am  I  to  understand,"  cried 
he,  holding  up  the  map  of  the  O'Reilly  estate, 
"  am  I  to  understand  that  you  have  no  further 
wish  for  this  bargain?" 

"Yes — No — I  mean,  you  are  to  understand 
that  I'm  off,"  replied  our  hero,  without  looking 
back — "I'm  off— That's  plain  English," 


350 


LAMENT  FOB  HER  HUSBAND. 


Arrived  at  the  King's  Bench  prison,  he 
hurried  to  the  apartment  where  Edwards  was 
confined — The  bolts  flew  back;  for  even  the 
turnkeys  seemed  to  catch  our  hero's  en- 
thusiasm. 

"  Edwards,  my  dear  boy!  how  do  you  do? — 
Here's  a  bond  debt,  justly  due  to  you  for  my 
education — O,  never  mind  asking  any  un- 
necessary questions;  only  just  make  haste  out 
of  this  undeserved  abode — Our  old  rascal  is 
paid  off — Owen  ap  Jones  you  know — Well 
how  the  man  stares? — Why,  now,  will  you 
have  the  assurance  to  pretend  to  forget  who 
I  am? — and  must  I  spake,"  continued  he, 
assuming  the  tone  of  his  childhood — "and 
must  I  spake  to  you  again  in  my  old  Irish 
brogue,  Lefjre  you  will  ricollict  your  own 
Little  Do-m'mick?" 

When  his  friend  Edwards  was  out  of  prison, 
and  when  our  hero  had  leisure  to  look  into  the 
business,  he  returned  to  the  attorney,  to  see 
that  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  had  been  satisfied. 

"Sir,"  said  the  attorney,  "I  have  paid  the 
plaintiff  in  this  suit,  and  he  is  satisfied:  but 
I  must  say,"  added  he,  with  a  contemptuous 
smile,  "that  you  Irish  gentlemen  are  rather 
in  too  great  a  hurry  in  doing  business;  busi- 
ness, sir,  is  a  thing  that  must  be  done  slowly, 
to  be  well  done." 

"I  am  ready  now  to  do  business  as  slowly 
as  you  please;  but  when  my  friend  was  in 
prison,  I  thought  the  quicker  I  did  his  busi- 
ness the  better.  Now  tell  me  what  mistake  I 
have  made,  and  I  will  rectify  it  instantly. " 

"  Instantly!  "Tig  well,  sir,  with  your  promp- 
titude, that  you  have  to  deal  with  what  pre- 
judice thinks  so  very  uncommon — an  honest 
attorney.  Here  are  some  bank-notes  of  yours, 
e'r,  amounting  to  a  good  round  sum!  You 
hive  made  a  little  blunder  in  this  business: 
you  left  me  the  penalty,  instead  of  the  prin- 
cipal, of  the  bond — just  twice  as  much  as  you 
should  have  done." 

"Just  twice  as  much  as  was  in  the  bond; 
but  not  twice  as  much  as  I  should  have  done, 
nor  half  as  much  as  I  should  have  done,  in  my 
opinion!"  said  O'Reilly:  "but  whatever  I  did, 
it  was  with  my  eyes  open.  I  was  persuaded 
you  were  an  honest  man;  in  which,  you  see, 
I  was  not  mistaken;  and  as  a  man  of  business, 
I  knew  that  you  would  pay  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones 
only  his  due.  The  remainder  of  the  money  I 
meant,  and  now  mean,  should  lie  in  your  hands 
for  my  friend  Edwards'  use.  I  feared  he  would 
not  have  taken  it  from  my  hands :  I  therefore 
left  it  in  yours.  To  have  taken  my  friend  out 
of  prison,  merely  to  let  him  go  back  again  to 
day,  for  want  of  money  to  keep  himself  clear 


with  the  world,  would  have  been  a  blunder, 
indeed!  but  not  an  Irish  blunder:  our  Irish 
blunders  are  never  blunders  of  the  heartl" 


LAMENT  FOR  HER  HUSBAND. 

There  was  an  eye  whose  partial  glance 
Could  ne'er  my  numerous  failings  see, 

There  icas  an  ear  that  still  untired 
Could  listen  to  kind  praise  of  me. 

There  icas  a  heart  Time  only  made 
For  me  with  fonder  feelings  burn; 

And  which,  whene'er,  alas !  I  roved, 
Still  long'd  and  pined  for  my  return. 

There  was  a  lip  which  always  breathed 
E'en  short  farewells  with  tones  of  sadness; 

There  was  a  voice,  whose  eager  sound 

My  welcome  spoke  with  heartfelt  gladness. 

There  was  a  mind,  whose  vigorous  powers 
On  mine  its  fostering  influence  threw; 

And  call'd  my  humble  talents  forth, 
Till  thence  its  dearest  joys  it  drew. 

There  was  a  love  that  oft  for  me 
With  anxious  fears  would  overflow; 

And  wept  and  pray'd  for  me,  and  sought 
From  future  ills  to  guard — but  now 

That  eye  is  closed,  and  deaf  that  ear, 
Thiit  lip  and  voice  are  mute  for  ever! 

And  cold  that  heart  of  faithful  love, 
Which  death  alone  from  mine  could  seven 

And  lost  to  me  that  ardent  mind, 
Which  loved  my  various  tasks  to  see; 

And  oh !  of  all  the  praise  I  gain'd, 
This  was  the  dearest  far  to  me ! 

Now  I,  unloved,  uncheer'd,  alone, 
Life's  dreary  wilderness  must  tread, 

Till  He  who  loves  the  broken  heart 
In  mercy  bids  me  join  the  dead. 

But,  "Father  of  the  fatherless," 

O !  thou  that  hear'st  the  orphan's  cry, 

And  "dwellest  with  the  contrite  heart," 
As  well  as  in  "thy  place  on  high!" 

0  Lord !  though  like  a  faded  leaf 
That's  severed  from  its  parent  tree, 

1  struggled  down  life's  stormy  tide, 
That  awful  tide  which  leads  to  thee ! 

Still,  Lord !  to  thee  the  voice  of  praise 
Shall  spring  triumphant  from  my  breast, 

Since  though  I  tread  a  weary  way, 
I  trust  that  he  I  mourn  is  bless'd ! 

MRS.  OPIB. 


THE  FAGS'  REVOLT. 


351 


THE  FAGS'  REVOLT.1 

[Thomas  Hughes,  born  at  Donnington  Priory,  Berks, 
1323,  educated  at  Rugby  and  Oxford;  tal'ed  to  the  bar 
in  1848.  He  was  returned  to  Parliament  for  Lambeth 
in  1865,  and  for  Frome  in  1868.  It  was  in  the  leisure 
of  a  busy  life  that  he  produced  Turn  Brown's  School 
Daiis,  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford,  The  Scouring  of  the  White 
H  .rue,  &c.  The  first  of  these  obtained  immediate  popu- 
larity, and  had  much  influence  in  bringing  about  a 
reform  of  many  abuses  which  prevailed  at  public  schools 
during  the  author's  school-days.  The  book  is  remark- 
able for  its  vigorous  sketches  of  actual  experiences.] 

In  no  place  in  the  world  has  individual 
character  more  weight  than  at  a  public  school. 
Remember  this,  I  beseech  you,  all  you  boys 
who  are  getting  into  the  upper  forms.  Now  is 
the  time  in  all  your  lives,  probably,  when  you 
may  have  more  wide  influence  for  good  or  evil 
on  the  society  you  live  in  than  you  ever  can 
have  again.  Quit  yourselves  like  men,  then  ; 
speak  up,  and  strike  out  if  necessary,  for  what- 
soever is  true,  and  manly,  and  lovely,  and  of 
good  report ;  never  try  to  be  popular,  but  only 
to  do  your  duty  and  help  others  to  do  theirs, 
and  you  may  leave  the  tone  of  feeling  in  the 
school  higher  than  you  found  it,  and  so  be 
doing  good  which  no  living  soul  can  measure 
to  generations  of  your  countrymen  yet  unborn. 
For  boys  follow  one  another  in  herds  like  sheep, 
for  good  or  evil :  they  hate  thinking,  and  have 
rarely  any  settled  principles.  Every  school, 
indeed,  has  its  own  traditionary  standard  of 
right  and  wrong,  which  cannot  be  transgressed 
with  impunity,  marking  certain  things  as  low 
and  blackguard,  and  certain  others  as  lawful 
and  right.  This  standard  is  ever  varying, 
though  it  changes  only  slowly  and  little  by 
little  ;  and,  subject  only  to  such  standard,  it  is 
the  leading  boys  for  the  time  being  who  give 
the  tone  to  all  the  rest,  and  make  the  school 
either  a  noble  institution  for  the  training  of 
Christian  Englishmen,  or  a  place  where  a  young 
boy  will  get  more  evil  than  he  would  if  he  were 
turned  out  to  make  his  way  in  London  streets, 
or  anything  between  these  two  extremes. 

The  change  for  the  worse  in  the  school-house 
however,  didn't  press  very  heavily  on  our 
youngsters  for  some  time  ;  they  were  in  a  good 
bedroom,  where  slept  the  only  praepostor  left 
who  was  able  to  keep  thorough  order,  and  their 
study  was  in  his  passage ;  so,  though  they  were 
fagged  more  or  less,  and  occasionally  kicked 
or  cuffed  by  the  bullies,  they  were  on  the  whole 
well  off;  and  the  fresh,  brave  school-life,  so 


i  Fr..m  Tom  Ji.-omi't  Hch  ul 
London  :  Macmillan  &  Co. 


By  an  O.d  Boy 


'ull  of  games,  adventures,  and  good  fellowship, 
so  ready  at  forgetting,  so  capacious  at  enjoying, 
so  bright  at  forecasting,  outweighed  a  thousand- 
'old  their  troubles  with  the  master  of  their 
'orm  and  the  occasional  ill-usage  of  the  big 
wys  in  the  house.  It  wasn't  till  some  year  or 
so  after  the  events  already  recorded  that  the  prae- 
postor of  their  room  and  passage  left.  None 
of  the  other  sixth-form  boys  would  move  into 
their  passage,  and  to  the  disgust  and  indig- 
nation of  Tom  and  East,  one  morning  afUr 
breakfast  they  were  seized  upon  by  Flashman, 
and  made  to  carry  down  his  books  and  furni- 
ture into  the  unoccupied  study  which  he  had 
taken.  From  this  time  they  began  to  feel  the 
weight  of  the  tyranny  of  Flashman  and  his 
friends,  and  now  that  trouble  had  come  home 
to  their  own  doors,  began  to  look  out  for  sym- 
pathizers and  partners  amongst  the  rest  of  the 
fags  ;  and  meetings  of  the  oppressed  began  to 
be  held,  and  murmurs  to  arise,  and  plots  to  be 
laid  as  to  how  they  should  free  themselves  and 
be  avenged  on  their  enemies. 

While  matters  were  in  this  state  East  and 
Tom  were  one  evening  sitting  in  their  study. 
They  had  done  their  work  for  first  lesson,  and 
Tom  was  in  a  brown  study,  brooding,  like  a 
young  William  Tell,  upon  the  wrongs  of  fags 
in  general,  and  his  own  in  particular. 

"  I  say,  Scud,"  said  he  at  last,  rousing  him- 
self to  snuff  the  candle,  "what  right  have  the 
fifth-form  boys  to  fag  us  as  they  do?" 

"  No  more  right  than  you  have  to  fag  them," 
answered  East,  without  looking  up  from  an 
early  number  of  Pickwick,  which  was  just 
coming  out,  ajid  which  he  was  luxuriously 
devouring,  stretched  on  his  back  on  the  sofa. 

Tom  relapsed  into  his  brown  study,  and  East 
went  on  reading  and  chuckling.  The  contrast 
of  the  boys'  faces  would  have  given  infinite 
amusement  to  a  looker-on,  the  one  so  solemn 
and  big  with  mighty  purpose,  the  other  radiant 
and  bubbling  over  with  fun. 

"Do  you  know,  old  fellow,  I've  been  think- 
ing it  over  a  good  deal,"  began  Tom  again. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know,  fagging  you  are  thinking 
of.  Hang  it  all, — but  listen  here,  Tom — 
here's  fun.  Mr.  Winkle's  horse—" 

"And  I've  made  up  my  mind,"  broke  in 
Tom,  "  that  I  won't  fag  except  for  the  sixth." 

"Quite  right  too,  my  boy,"  cried  East, 
putting  his  finger  on  the  place  and  looking  up; 
"  but  a  pretty  peck  of  troubles  you'll  get  into, 
if  you're  going  to  play  that  game.  However, 
I'm  all  for  a  strike  myself,  if  we  can  get  others 
to  join — it's  getting  too  bad." 

"  Can't  we  get  some  sixth-form  fellow  to  talw 
it  up?"  asked  Tom. 


352 


THE  FAGS'  REVOLT. 


"Well,  perhaps  we  might;  Morgan  would 
interfere,  I  think.  Only,"  added  East,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  "you  see,  we  should  have  to 
tell  him  about  it,  and  that's  against  School  prin- 
ciples. Don't  you  remember  what  old  Brooke 
sa.d  about  learning  to  take  our  own  parts?" 

••  Ah,  I  wish  old  Brooke  were  back  again — 
it  was  all  right  in  his  time." 

"  Why,  yes,  you  see,  then  the  strongest  and 
best  fellows  were  in  the  sixth,  and  tne  fifth- 
form  fellows  were  afraid  of  them,  and  they  kept 
good  order ;  but  now  our  sixth-form  fellows  are 
tjo  small,  and  the  fifth  don't  care  for  them, 
and  do  what  they  like  in  the  house." 

"  And  so  we  get  a  double  set  of  masters," 
cried  Tom,  indignantly ;  "  the  lawful  ones, 
who  are  responsible  to  the  Doctor  at  any  rate, 
and  the  unlawful — the  tyrants,  who  are  respon- 
sible to  nobody." 

"  Down  with  the  tyrants! "  cried  East;  "  I'm 
all  for  law  and  order,  and  hurra  for  a  revolu- 
tion." 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  if  it  were  only  for  young 
Brooke  now,"  said  Tom,  "he's  such  a  good- 
hearted,  gentlemanly  fellow,  and  ought  to  be 
in  the  sixth — I'd  do  anything  for  him.  But 
that  blackguard  Flashman,  who  never  speaks 
to  one  without  a  kick  or  an  oath — " 

"  The  cowardly  brute,"  broke  in  East,  "how 
I  hate  him  !  And  he  knows  it  too,  he  knows 
that  you  and  I  think  him  a  coward.  What 
a  bore  that  he's  got  a  study  in  this  passage  ! 
Don't  you  hear  them  now  at  supper  in  his  den? 
Brandy  punch  going,  I'll  bet.  I  wish  the 
Doctor  would  come  out  and  catch  him.  We 
must  change  our  study  as  soon  us  we  can. " 

"  Change  or  no  change,  I'll  never  fag  for  him 
again,"  said  Tom,  thumping  the  table. 

"Fa-a-a-ag!"  sounded  alongthe  passage  from 
Flashman's  study.  The  two  boys  looked  at  one 
another  in  silence.  It  had  struck  nine,  so  the 
regular  night-fags  ha<l  left  duty,  and  they  were 
the  nearest  to  the  supper-party.  East  sat  up, 
and  began  to  look  comical,  as  he  always  did 
under  difficulties. 

"Fa-a-a-ag!"  again.     No  answer. 

"Here,  Brown!  East!  you  cursed  young 
skulks,"  roared  out  Flashman,  coming  to  his 
open  door,  "  I  know  you're  in — no  shirking." 

Tom  stole  to  their  door,  and  drew  the  bolts 
as  noiselessly  as  he  could ;  East  blew  out  the 
candle. 

"  Barricade  the  first,"  whispered  he.  "Now 
Tom,  mind,  no  surrender." 

"  Trust  me  for  that,"  said  Tom  between  his 
teeth. 

In  another  minute  they  heard  the  supper- 
party  turn  out  and  come  dowii  the  passage  to 


their  door.  They  held  their  breaths,  and  heard 
whispering,  of  which  they  only  made  out 
Flashman's  words,  "  I  know  the  young  brutes 
are  in." 

Then  came  summonses  to  open,  which  being 
unanswered,  the  assault  commenced  ;  luckily 
the  door  was  a  good  strong  oak  one,  and 
resisted  the  united  weight  of  Flashman's  party. 
A  pause  followed,  and  they  heard  a  besieger 
remark,  "  They're  in  safe  enough — don't  you 
see  how  the  door  holds  at  top  and  bottom?  so 
the  bolts  must  be  drawn.  We  should  have 
forced  the  lock  long  ago."  East  gave  Tom  a 
nudge,  to  call  attention  to  this  scientific  re- 
mark. 

Then  came  attacks  on  particular  panels,  one 
of  which  at  last  gave  way  to  the  repeated  kicks; 
but  it  broke  inwards,  and  the  broken  piecegot 
jammed  across,  the  door  being  lined  with  green 
baize,  and  couldn't  easily  be  removed  from 
outside;  and  the  besieged,  scorning  further 
concealment,  strengthened  their  defences  by 
pressing  the  end  of  their  sofa  against  the  door. 
So,  after  one  or  two  more  ineffectual  efforts, 
Flashman  &  Co.  retired,  vowing  vengeance  in 
no  mild  terms. 

The  first  danger  over,  it  only  remained  for 
the  besieged  to  effect  a  safe  retreat,  as  it  was 
now  near  bedtime.  They  listened  intently 
and  heard  the  supper-party  resettle  themselves, 
and  then  gently  drew  back  first  one  bolt 
and  then  the  other.  Presently  the  convivial 
noises  began  again  steadily.  "Now  then, 
stand  by  for  a  run,"  said  East,  throwing  the 
door  wide  open  and  rushing  into  the  passage, 
closely  followed  by  Tom.  They  were  too  quick 
to  be  caught,  but  Flashman  was  on  the  look- 
out, and  sent  an  empty  pickle  jar  whizzing 
after  them,  which  narrowly  missed  Tom's  head, 
and  broke  into  twenty  pieces  at  the  end  of  the 
passage.  "  He  wouldn't  mind  killing  one,  if 
he  wasn't  caught,"  said  East,  as  they  turned 
the  corner. 

There  was  no  pursuit,  so  the  two  turned  into 
the  hall,  where  they  found  a  knot  of  small 
boys  round  the  fire.  Their  story  was  told — the 
war  of  independence  had  broken  out — who 
would  join  the  revolutionary  forces?  Several 
others  present  bound  themselves  not  to  fag  for 
the  fifth  form  at  once.  One  or  two  only  edged 
off,  and  left  the  rebels.  What  eke  could  they 
do?  "  I've  a  good  mind  to  go  to  the  Doctor 
straight,"  said  Tom. 

"  That'll  never  do — don't  you  remember  the 
levy  of  the  school  last  half?"  put  in  another. 

In  fact,  that  solemn  assembly,  a  levy  of  the 
school,  had  been  held,  at  which  the  captain  of 
the  school  had  got  up,  and,  after  premising 


THE   FAGS'   REVOLT. 


353 


that  several  instances  had  occurred  of  matters 
having. been,  reported  to  the  masters;  that  this 
was  against  public  morality  and  school  tradi- 
tion :  that  a  levy  of  the  sixth  had  been  held  on 
the  subject,  and  they  had  resolved  that  the 
practice  must  be  stopped  at  once;  had  given 
out  that  any  boy,  in  whatever  form,  who  should 
thenceforth  appeal  to  a  master,  without  having 
first  gone  to  some  praepostor  and  laid  the  case 
before  him,  should  be  thrashed  publicly,  and 
sent  to  Coventry. 

"Well,    then,    let's    try    the    sixth.     Try 
Morgan,"   suggested  another.     "No  use"- 
"  Blabbing  won't  do,"  was  the  general  feeling. 

"  I'll  give  you  fellows  a  piece  of  advice," 
said  a  voice  from  the  end  of  the  hall.  They  all 
turned  round  with  a  start,  and  the  speaker  got 
up  from  a  bench  on  which  he  had  been  lying 
unobserved,  and  gave  himself  a  shake;  he  was 
a  big  loose-made  fellow,  with  huge  limbs  which 
had  grown  too  far  through  his  jacket  and 
trousers.  "Don't  you  go  to  anybody  at  all — 
you  just  stand  out;  say  you  won't  fag — they'll 
soon  get  tired  of  licking  you.  I've  tried  it  on 
years  ago  with  their  fore-runners." 

"No!  did  you?  Tell  us  how  it  was?" 
cried  a  chorus  of  voices,  as  they  clustered 
round  him. 

"Well,  just  as  it  is  with  you.  The  fifth 
form  would  fag  us,  and  I  and  some  more  struck, 
and  we  beat  'em.  The  good  fellows  left  off 
directly,  and  the  bullies  who  kept  on  soon  got 
afraid." 

"  Was  Flashman  here  then?" 

"  Yes!  and  a  dirty  little  snivelling,  sneaking 
fellow  he  was  too.  He  never  dared  join  us,  and 
used  to  toady  the  bullies  by  offering  to  fag  for 
them  and  peaching  against  the  rest  of  us. " 

"  Why  wasn't  he  cut  then?"  said  East. 

"  Oh,  toadies  never  get  cut,  they're  too  use- 
ful. Besides,  he  has  no  end  of  great  hampers 
from  home,  with  wine  and  game  in  them;  so  he 
toadied  and  fed  himself  into  favour." 

The  quarter-to-ten  bell  now  rang,  and  the 
small  boys  went  off  upstairs,  still  consulting 
together,  and  praising  their  new  counsellor, 
who  stretched  himself  out  on  the  bench  before 
the  hall-fire  again.  There  he  lay,  a  very  queer 
specimen  of  boyhood,  by  name  Diggs,  and 
familiarly  called  "the  Mucker."  He  was 
young  for  his  size,  and  a  very  clever  fellow, 
nearly  at  the  top  of  the  fifth.  His  friends  at 
home,  having  regard,  I  suppose,  to  his  age,  and 
not  to  his  size  and  place  in  the  school,  hadn't 
put  him  into  tails;  and  even  his  jackets  were 
always  too  small;  and  he  had  a  talent  for 
destroying  clothes  and  making  himself  look 
shabby.  He  wasn't  on  terms  with  Flashman's 

VOL.   I. 


set,  who  sneered  at  his  dress  and  ways  behind 
his  back,  which  he  knew,  and  revenged  him- 
self by  asking  Flashman  the  most  disagreeable 
questions,  and  treating  him  familiarly  when- 
ever a  crowd  of  boys  were  round  them.  Neither 
was  he  intimate  with  any  of  the  other  bigger 
boys,  who  were  warned  off  by  his  oddnesses, 
for  he  was  a  very  queer  fellow;  besides,  amongst 
other  failings,  he  had  that  of  impecuniosity  in 
a  remarkable  degree.  He  brought  as  much 
money  as  other  boys  to  school,  but  got  rid  of 
it  in  no  time,  no  one  knew  how.  And  then, 
being  also  reckless,  borrowed  from  any  one,  and 
when  his  debts  accumulated  and  creditors 
pressed,  would  have  an  auction  in  the  Hall  of 
everything  he  possessed  in  the  world,  selling 
even  his  school-books,  candlestick,  and  study 
table.  For  weeks  after  one  of  these  auctions, 
having  rendered  his  study  uninhabitable,  he 
would  live  about  in  the  fifth-form  room  a^d 
Hall,  doing  his  verses  on  old  letter-backs  and 
odd  scraps  of  paper,  and  learning  his  lessons  no 
one  knew  how.  He  never  meddled  with  any 
little  boys,  and  was  popular  with  them,  though 
they  all  looked  on  him  with  a  sort  of  com- 
passion, and  called  him  "poor  Diggs,"  not 
being  able  to  resist  appearances,  or  to  disregard 
wholly  even  the  sneers  of  their  enemy  Flash- 
man. However,  he  seemed  equally  indifferent 
to  the  sneers  of  big  boys  and  the  pity  of  small 
ones,  and  lived  his  own  queer  life  with  much 
apparent  enjoyment  to  himself.  It  is  necessary 
to  introduce  Diggs  thus  particularly,  as  he  not 
only  did  Tom  and  East  good  service  in  their 
present  warfare,  as  is  about  to  l>e  told,  but 
soon  afterwards,  when  he  got  into  the  sixth, 
chose  them  for  his  fags,  and  excused  them  from 
study-fagging,  thereby  earning  unto  himself 
eternal  gratitude  from  them,  and  from  all  who 
are  interested  in  their  history. 

And  seldom  had  small  boys  more  need  of  a 
friend,  for  the  morning  after  the  siege  the 
storm  burst  upon  the  rebels  in  all  its  violence. 
Flashman  laid  wait,  and  caught  Tom  before 
second  lesson,  and,  receiving  a  point-blank 
"No"  when  told  to  fetch  his  hat,  seized  him 
and  twisted  his  arm,  and  went  through  the  other 
methods  of  torture  in  use:  "  He  couldn't  make 
me  cry  though,"  as  Tom  said  triumphantly  to 
the  rest  of  the  rebels,  "and  I  kicked  his  shins 
well,  I  know."  And  soon  it  crept  out  that  a 
lot  of  the  fags  were  in  league,  and  Flashman 
excited  his  associates  to  join  him  in  bringing 
the  young  vagabonds  to  their  senses;  and  the 
house  was  filled  with  constant  chasings,  and 
sieges,  and  lickings  of  all  sorts;  and  in  return, 
the  bullies'  beds  Avere  pulled  to  pieces  and 
drenched  with  water,  and  their  names  written 


854 


THE  FAGS'  REVOLT. 


up  on  the  walls  with  every  insulting  epithet 
which  the  fag  invention  could  furnish.  The 
war  in  short  raged  fiercely;  but  soon,  as  Diggs 
had  told  them,  all  the  better  fellows  in  the  fifth 
gave  up  trying  to  fag  them,  and  public  feeling 
began  to  set  against  Flashman  and  his  two  or 
three  intimates,  and  they  were  obliged  to  keep 
their  doings  more  secret,  but,  being  thorough 
bad  fellows,  missed  no  opportunity  of  torturing 
in  private.  Flashman  was  an  adept  in  all 
ways,  but  above  all  in  the  power  of  saying 
cutting  and  cruel  things,  and  could  often  bring 
tears  to  the  eyes  of  boys  in  this  way  which  all 
the  thrashings  in  the  world  Avouldn't  have 
wrung  from  them. 

And  as  his  operations  were  being  cut  short  in 
other  directions,  he  now  devoted  himself  chiefly 
to  Tom  and  East,  who  lived  at  his  own  door, 
and  would  force  himself  into  their  study  when- 
ever he  found  a  chance,  and  sit  there,  some- 
times alone,  sometimes  with  a  companion, 
interrupting  all  their  work,  and  exulting  in 
the  evident  pain  which  every  now  and  then  he 
could  see  he  was  inflicting  on  one  or  the  other. 

The  storm  had  cleared  the  air  for  the  rest  of 
the  house,  and  a  better  state  of  things  now 
began  than  there  had  been  since  old  Brooke 
had  left :  but  an  angry  dark  spot  of  thunder- 
cloud still  hung  over  the  end  of  the  passage, 
where  Flashman's  study  and  that  of  East  and 
Tom  lay. 

He  felt  that  they  had  been  the  first  rebels, 
and  that  the  rebellion  had  been  to  a  great 
extent  successful ;  but  what  above  all  stirred 
the  hatred  and  bitterness  of  his  heart  against 
them  was,  that  in  the  frequent  collisions  which 
there  had  been  of  late  they  had  openly  called 
him  coward  and  sneak, — the  taunts  were  too 
true  to  be  forgiven.  While  he  was  in  the  act 
of  thrashing  them,  they  would  roar  out  instances 
of  his  funking  at  football,  or  shirking  some 
encounter  with  a  lout  of  half  his  own  size. 
These  things  were  all  well  enough  known  in  the 
house,  but  to  have  his  disgrace  shouted  out  by 
small  boys,  to  feel  that  they  despised  him,  to 
be  unable  to  silence  them  by  any  amount  of 
torture,  and  to  see  the  open  laugh  and  sneer  of 
his  own  associates  (who  were  looking  on,  and 
took  no  trouble  to  hide  their  scorn  from  him, 
though  they  neither  interfered  with  his  bully- 
ing or  lived  a  bit  the  less  intimately  with  him), 
made  him  beside  himself.  Come  what  might, 
he  would  make  those  boys'  lives  miserable.  So 
the  strife  settled  down  into  a  personal  affair 
between  Flashman  and  our  youngsters;  a  war 
to  the  knife,  to  be  fought  out  in  the  little  cock- 
pit at  the  end  of  the  bottom  passage. 

Flashman,  be  it  said,  was  about  seventeen 


years  old,  and  big  and  strong  of  his  age.  lit 
played  well  at  all  games  where  pluck  wasn't 
much  wanted,  and  managed  generally  to  keep 
up  appearances  where  it  was;  and  having  a 
bluff,  off-hand  manner,  which  passed  for  hearti- 
ness, and  considerable  powers  of  being  pleasant 
when  he  liked,  went  down  with  the  school  in 
general  for  a  good  fellow  enough.  Even  in 
the  school-house,  by  dint  of  his  command  of 
money,  the  constant  supply  of  good  things 
which  he  kept  up,  and  his  adroit  toadyism, 
he  had  managed  to  make  himself  not  only 
tolerated,  but  rather  popular  amongst  his 
own  contemporaries:  although  young  Brooke 
scarcely  spoke  to  him,  and  one  or  two  others  of 
the  right  sort  showed  their  opinions  of  him 
whenever  a  chance  offered.  But  the  wrong 
sort  happened  to  be  in  the  ascendant  just  now, 
and  so  Flashman  was  a  formidable  enemy  for 
small  boys.  This  soon  became  plain  enough. 
Flashman  left  no  slander  unspoken,  and  no 
deed  undone,  which  could  in  any  way  hurt  his 
victims,  or  isolate  them  from  the  rest  of  the 
house.  One  by  one  most  of  the  other  rebels 
fell  away  from  them,  while  Flashman's  cause 
prospered,  and  several  other  fifth-form  boys 
began  to  look  black  at  them  and  ill-treat  them 
as  they  passed  about  the  house.  By  keeping 
out  of  bounds,  or  at  all  events  out  of  the  house 
and  quadrangle,  all  day,  and  carefully  barring 
themselves  in  at  night,  East  and  Tom  managed 
to  hold  on  without  feeling  very  miserable;  but 
it  was  as  much  as  they  could  do.  Greatly 
were  they  drawn  then  towards  old  Diggs,  who, 
in  an  uncouth  way,  began  to  take  a  good  deal  of 
notice  of  them,  and  once  or  twice  came  to  their 
study  when  Flashman  was  there,  who  imme- 
diately decamped  in  consequence.  The  boys 
thought  that  Diggs  must  have  been  watching. 
When  therefore,  about  this  time,  an  auction 
was  one  night  announced  to  take  place  in  the 
Hall,  at  which,  amongst  the  superfluities  of 
other  boys,  all  Diggs'  Penates  for  the  time 
being  were  going  to  the  hammer,  East  and 
Tom  laid  their  heads  together,  and  resolved  to 
devote  their  ready  cash  (some  four  shillings 
sterling)  to  redeem  such  articles  as  that  sum 
would  cover.  Accordingly,  they  duly  attended 
to  bid,  and  Tom  became  the  owner  of  two  lots 
of  Diggs'  things; — lot  1,  price  one-and-thrce- 
pence,  consisting  (as  the  auctioneer  remarked) 
of  a  "valuable  assortment  of  old  metals,"  in 
the  shape  of  a  mouse-trap,  a  cheese-toaster 
without  a  handle,  and  a  saucepan;  lot  2,  of 
a  villanous  dirty  table-cloth  and  green-baize 
curtain;  while  East,  for  one-and-sixpence, 
purchased  a  leather  paper-case,  with  a  lock  but 
no  key,  once  handsome,  but  now  much  the 


THE  FAGS'  REVOLT. 


355 


worse  for  wear.  But  they  had  still  the  point 
to  settle  of  how  to  get  Diggs  to  take  the  things 
without  hurting  his  feelings.  This  they  solved 
by  leaving  them  in  his  study,  which  was  never 
locked  when  he  was  out.  Diggs,  who  had 
attended  the  auction,  remembered  who  had 
bought  the  lots,  and  came  to  their  study  soon 
after,  and  sat  silent  for  some  time,  cracking  his 
great  red  finger-joints.  Then  he  laid  hold  of 
their  verses,  and  began  lookingover  and  altering 
them,  and  at  last  got  up,  and  turning  his  back  to 
them,  said,  "You're  uncommon  good-hearted 
little  beggars,  you  two — I  value  that  paper- 
case,  my  sister  gave  it  me  last  holidays— I 
won't  forget;"  and  so  tumbled  out  into  the 
passage,  leaving  them  somewhat  embarrassed, 
but  not  sorry  that  he  knew  what  they  had 
done. 

The  next  morning  was  Saturday,  the  day  on 
which  the  allowances  of  one  shilling  a  week 
were  paid,  an  important  event  to  spendthrift 
youngsters:  and  great  was  the  disgust  amongst 
the  small  fry  to  hear  that  all  the  allowances  had 
been  impounded  for  the  Derby  lottery.  That 
great  event  in  the  English  year,  the  Derby, 
was  celebrated  at  Rugby  in  those  days  by  many 
lotteries.  It  was  not  an  improving  custom,  I 
own,  gentle  reader,  and  led  to  making  books, 
and  betting,  and  other  objectionable  results; 
but  when  our  great  Houses  of  Palaver  think  it 
right  to  stop  the  nation's  business  on  that  day, 
and  many  of  the  members  bet  heavily  them- 
selves, can  you  blame  us  boys  for  following  the 
example  of  our  betters? — at  any  rate  we  did  fol- 
low it.  First  there  was  the  great  School  lottery, 
where  the  first  prize  was  six  or  seven  pounds ; 
then  each  house  had  one  or  more  separate  lot- 
teries. These  were  all  nominally  voluntary,  no 
boy  being  compelled  to  put  in  his  shilling  who 
didn't  choose  to  do  so:  but  besides  Flash- 
man,  there  were  three  or  four  other  fast  sport- 
ing young  gentlemen  in  the  school-house,  who 
considered  subscription  a  matter  of  duty  and 
necessity,  and  so,  to  make  their  duty  come 
easy  to  the  small  boys,  quietly  secured  the 
allowances  in  a  lump  when  given  out  for  dis- 
tribution, and  kept  them.  It  was  no  use 
grumbling, — so  many  fewer  tartlets  and  apples 
were  eaten  and  fives'-balls  bought  on  that 
Saturday;  and  after  locking-up,  when  the 
money  would  otherwise  have  been  spent,  con- 
solation was  carried  to  many  a  small  boy  by 
the  sound  of  the  night-fags  shouting  along 
the  passages,  "Gentlemen,  sportsmen  of  the 
School-house,  the  lottery's  going  to  be  drawn 
in  the  Hall."  It  was  pleasant  to  be  called  a 
gentleman  sportsman — also  to  have  a  chance  of 
drawing  a  favourite  horse. 


The  Hall  was  full  of  boys,  and  at  the  head 
of  one  of  the  long  tables  stood  the  sporting 
interest,  with  a  hat  before  them,  in  which  were 
the  tickets  folded  up.  One  of  them  then 
began  calling  out  the  list  of  the  house ;  each 
boy  as  his  name  was  called  drew  a  ticket  from 
the  hat  and  opened  it,  and  most  of  the  bigger 
boys,  after  drawing,  left  the  Hall  directly  to 
go  back  to  their  studies  or  the  fifth-form  room. 
The  sporting  interest  had  all  drawn  blanks, 
and  they  were  sulky  accordingly;  neither  of 
the  favourites  had  yet  been  drawn,  and  it  had 
come  down  to  the  upper-fourth.  So  now,  as 
each  small  boy  came  up  and  drew  his  ticket, 
it  was  seized  and  opened  by  Flashman  or  some 
other  of  the  standers-by.  But  no  great  favourite 
is  drawn  until  it  comes  to  the  Tadpole's  turn, 
and  he  shuffles  up  and  draws,  and  tries  to  make 
off,  but  is  caught,  and  his  ticket  is  opened  like 
the  rest. 

"Here  you  are!  Wanderer!  the  third  fa- 
vourite," shouts  the  opener. 

"  I  say,  just  give  me  my  ticket,  please," 
remonstrates  Tadpole. 

"Hullo,  don't  be  in  a  hurry,"  breaks  in 
Flashman;  "what'll  you  Bell  Wanderer  for 
now?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  sell,"  rejoins  Tadpole. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  !  Now  listen,  you  young 
fool — you  don't  know  anything  about  it ;  the 
horse  is  no  use  to  you.  He  won't  win,  but  I 
want  him  as  a  hedge.  Now,  I'll  give  you 
half-a-crown  for  him."  Tadpole  holds  out, 
but  between  threats  and  cajoleries  at  length 
sells  half  for  one-shilling- and-sixpence,  about 
a  fifth  of  its  fair  market  value;  however,  he  is 
glad  to  realize  anything,  and  as  he  wisely 
remarks,  "  Wanderer  mayn't  win,  and  the 
tizzy  is  safe 'anyhow. " 

East  presently  comes  up  and  draws  a  blank. 
Soon  after  comes  Tom's  turn  ;  his  ticket,  like 
the  others,  is  seized  and  opened.  "  Here  you 
are  then,"  shouts  the  opener  holding  it  up, 
"Harkaway!  By  Jove,  Flashey,  your  young 
friend's  in  luck." 

"  Give  me  the  ticket,"  says  Flashman  with 
an  oath,  leaning  across  the  table  with  opened 
hand,  and  his  face  black  with  rage. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  it!"  replies  the  opener, 
not  a  bad  fellow  at  the  bottom,  and  no  admirer 
of  Flashman's.  "  Here,  Brown,  catch  hold," 
and  he  hands  the  ticket  to  Tom,  who  pockets 
it;  whereupon  Flashman  makes  for  the  door 
at  once,  that  Tom  and  the  ticket  may  not 
escape,  and  there  keeps  watch  until  the  draw- 
ing is  over,  and  all  the  boys  are  gone,  except 
the  sporting  set  of  five  or  six,  who  stay  to  com- 
pare books,  make  bets,  and  so  on,  Tom,  who 


356 


THE  FAGS'  REVOLT. 


doesn't  choose  to  move  while  Flash  man  is  at 
the  door,  and  East,  who  stays  by  his  friend 
anticipating  trouble. 

The  sporting  set  now  gathered  round  Tom. 
Public  opinion  wouldn't  allow  them  actually 
to  rob  him  of  his  ticket,  but  any  humbug  or 
intimidation  by  which  he  could  be  driven  to 
sell  the  whole  or  part  at  an  under-value  was 
lawful. 

"Now,  young  Brown,  come,  what'll  you 
sell  me  Harkaway  for?  I  hear  he  isn't  going 
to  start.  I'll  give  you  five  shillings  for  him," 
begins  the  boy  who  had  opened  the  ticket. 
Tom,  remembering  his  good  deed,  and  more- 
over in  his  forlorn  state  wishing  to  make  a 
friend,  is  about  to  accept  the  offer,  when 
another  cries  out,  "  I'll  give  you  seven 
shillings."  Tom  hesitated,  and  looked  from 
one  to  the  other. 

"No,  no!"  said  Flashman,  pushing  in, 
"  leave  me  to  deal  with  him ;  we'll  draw  lots  for 
it  afterwards.  Now,  sir,  you  know  me — you'll 
sell  Harkaway  to  us  for  five  shillings,  or  you'll 
repent  it." 

"  I  won't  sell  a  bit  of  him/'  answered  Tom, 
shortly. 

"  You  hear  that  now!"  said  Flashman,  turn- 
ing to  the  others.  "  He's  the  coxiest  young 
blackguard  in  the  house — I  always  told  you  so. 
We're  to  have  all  the  trouble  and  risk  of 
getting  up  the  lotteries  for  the  benefit  of  such 
fellows  as  he." 

Flashman  forgets  to  explain  what  risk  they 
ran,  but  he  speaks  to  willing  ears.  Gambling 
makes  boys  selfish  and  cruel  as  well  as  men. 

"  That's  true, — we  always  draw  blanks," 
cried  one.  "  Now,  sir,  you  shall  sell  half,  at 
any  rate." 

"  I  won't,"  said  Tom,  flushing  up  to  his 
hair,  and  lumping  them  all  in  his  mind  with 
his  sworn  enemy. 

"  Very  well  then,  let's  roast  him,"  cried 
Flashman,  and  catches  hold  of  Tom  by  the 
collar;  one  or  two  boys  hesitate,  but  the  rest 
join  in.  East  seizes  Tom's  arm  and  tries  to 
pull  him  away,  but  is  knocked  back  by  one  of 
the  boys,  and  Tom  is  dragged  along  struggling. 
His  shoulders  are  pushed  against  the  mantel- 
piece, and  he  is  held  by  main  force  before  the 
fire,  Flashman  drawing  his  trousers  tight  by 
way  of  extra  torture.  Poor  East,  in  more 
pain  even  than  Tom,  suddenly  thinks  of  Diggs, 
and  darts  off  to  find  him.  "  Will  you  sell 
now  for  ten  shillings ! "  says  one  boy  who  is 
relenting. 

Tom  only  answers  by  groans  and  struggles. 

"  I  say,  Flashey,  he  has  had  enough,"  says 
the  same  boy,  dropping  the  arm  he  holds. 


"  No,  no,  another  turn'll  do  it,"  answers 
Flashman.  But  poor  Tom  is  done  already, 
turns  deadly  pale,  and  his  head  falls  forward 
on  his  breast,  just  as  Diggs,  in  frantic  excite- 
ment, rushes  into  the  Hall  with  East  at  hia 
heels. 

"You  cowardly  brutes  !"  is  all  he  can  say, 
as  he  catches  Tom  from  them  and  supports 
him  to  the  Hall  table.  "Good  God!  he's 
dying.  Here,  get  some  cold  water — run  for 
the  housekeeper." 

Flashman  and  one  or  two  others  slink  away; 
the  rest,  ashamed  and  sorry,  bend  over  Tom  or 
run  for  water,  while  East  darts  off  for  the 
housekeeper.  Water  comes,  and  they  throw  it 
on  his  hands  and  face,  and  he  begins  to  come 
to.  "Mother!" — the  words  came  feebly  and 
slowly — "it's  very  cold  to-night."  Poor  old 
Diggs  is  blubbering  like  a  child.  "Where 
am  I  ?"  goes  on  Tom,  opening  his  eyes.  "Ah! 
I  remember  now;"  and  he  shut  his  eyes  again 
and  groaned. 

"I  say,"  is  whispered,  "we  can't  do  any 
good,  and  the  housekeeper  will  be  here  in  a 
minute;"  and  all  but  one  steal  away;  he  stays 
with  Diggs,  silent  and  sorrowful,  and  fans 
Tom's  face. 

The  housekeeper  comes  in  with  strong  salts, 
and  Tom  soon  recovers  enough  to  sit  up.  There 
is  a  smell  of  burning;  she  examines  his  clothes, 
and  looks  up  inquiringly.  The  boys  are 
silent. 

"  How  did  he  come  so?"    No  answer. 

"  There's  been  some  bad  work  here,"  she 
adds,  looking  very  serious,  "and  I  shall  speak 
to  the  Doctor  about  it."  Still  no  answer. 

"  Hadn't  we  better  carry  him  to  the  sick- 
room ?"  suggests  Diggs. 

"  Oh,  I  can  walk  now,"  says  Tom!  and,  sup- 
ported by  East  and  the  housekeeper,  goes  to 
the  sick-room.  The  boy  who  held  his  ground 
is  soon  amongst  the  rest,  who  are  all  in  fear 
of  their  lives.  "  Did  he  peach  ?'  "Does  she 
know  about  it  ?' 

"Not  a  word — he's  a  stanch  little  fellow." 
And  pausing  a  moment  he  adds,  "I'm  sick  of 
this  work;  what  brutes  we've  been! " 

Meantime  Tom  is  stretched  on  the  sofa  in 
the  housekeeper's  room,  with  East  by  his  side, 
while  she  gets  wine  and  water  and  other 
restoratives. 

"Are  you  much  hurt,  dear  old  boy?" 
whispers  East. 

"  Only  the  back  of  my  legs,"  answers  Tom. 
They  are  indeed  badly  scorched,  and  part  of 
his  trousers  burned  through.  But  soon  he  is 
in  bed,  with  cold  bandages.  At  first  he  feels 
broken,  and  thinks  of  writing  home  and  getting 


THE  VICAR. 


357 


taken  away;  and  the  verse  of  a  hymn  he  had 
learned  years  ago  sings  through  his  head,  and 
he  goes  to  sleep,  murmuring — 

"Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
And  the  weary  are  at  rest." 

But  after  a  sound  night's  rest,  the  old  boy- 
spirit  comes  back  again.  East  comes  in  re- 
porting that  the  whole  house  is  with  him,  and 
lie  forgets  everything,  except  their  old  resolve 
never  to  be  beaten  by  that  bully  Flashman. 

Not  a  word  could  the  housekeeper  extract 
from  either  of  them,  and  though  the  Doctor 
knew  all  that  she  knew  that  morning,  he 
never  knew  any  more. 

I  trust  and  believe  that  such  scenes  are  not 
possible  now  at  school,  and  that  lotteries  and 
betting-books  have  gone  out !  but  I  am  writing 
of  schools  as  they  were  in  our  time,  and  must 
give  the  evil  with  the  good. 


THE  VICAR. 

[Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed,  born  in  London, 
2tit!i  July,  1802;  died  there,  15th  July,  1S39.  He  was 
c.tl  e<l  to  the  bar,  and  was  during  his  latter  years  a 
member  of  the  House  of  Commons.  Although  he 
rendered  good  service  to  the  state  as  a  politician,  it 
is  as  a  jioet  that  he  is  remembered ;  and  best  as  the 
leader  of  the  writers  of  vers  de  focietd.  Humour  and 
]>athos.  character  and  satire,  are  delightfully  mingled 
in  his  works.  An  edition  of  his  poems,  in  two  volumes, 
edited  by  Derweut  Coleridge,  M.A.,  is  published  by 
Moxon  &  Co.] 

Some  years  ago,  ere  time  and  taste 

Had  turned  our  parish  topsy-turvy, 
When  Darnel  Park  was  Darnel  Waste, 

And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy, 
The  man  who  lost  his  way,  between 

St.  Mary's  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket, 
Was  always  shown  across  the  green, 

And  guided  to  the  Parson's  wicket. 

Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lissom  lath ; 

Fair  Margaret,  in  her  tidy  kirtle, 
Led  the  loru  traveller  up  the  path, 

Through  clean-clipt  rows  of  box  and  myrtle; 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlour  steps  collected, 
Wagged  all  their  tails,  and  seemed  to  say — 

"  Our  master  knows  you — you're  expected. " 

Uprose  the  Reverend  Dr.  Brown, 

Uprose  the  Doctor's  winsome  marrow; 

The  lady  laid  her  knitting  down, 

Her  husband  clasped  his  ponderous  Barrow ; 


Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed. 

Pundit  or  Papist,  saint  or  sinner, 
He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed, 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reached  his  journey's  end, 

And  warmed  himself  in  Court  or  College, 
He  had  not  gained  an  honest  friend 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge, — 
If  he  departed  as  he  came, 

With  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquor,— 
Good  sooth,  the  traveller  was  to  blame, 

And  not  the  Vicarage,  nor  the  Vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream,  which  runs 

With  rapid  change  from  rocks  to  roses: 
It  slipped  from  politics  to  puns, 

It  pussed  from  Mahomet  to  Moses ; 
Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 

The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses, 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 

For  dressing  eels,  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  Divine, 

Of  loud  Dissent  the  mortal  terror; 
And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  line, 

He  "stablished  Truth,  or  startled  Error, 
The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep ; 

The  Deist  sighed  with  saving  sorrow ; 
And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep, 

And  dreamed  of  tasting  pork  to-morrow. 

His  sermon  never  said  or  showed 

That  Earth  is  foul,  that  Heaven  is  gracious, 
Without  refreshment  on  the  road 

From  Jerome,  or  from  Athauasius : 
And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspired 

The  hand  and  head  that  penned  and  planned 

them, 
For  all  who  understood  admired, 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 

He  wrote,  too,  in  a  quiet  way, 

Small  treatises,  and  smaller  verses, 
And  sage  remarks  on  chalk  and  clay, 

And  hints  to  noble  Lords— and  nurses; 
True  histories  of  last  year's  ghost, 

Lines  to  a  ringlet,  or  a  turban, 
And  trifles  for  the  Morning  Post, 

And  nothings  for  Sylvanus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair, 

Although  he  had  H  knack  of  joking; 
He  did  not  make  himself  a  bear, 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking; 
And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad, 

He  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning, 
That  if  a  man's  belief  is  bad, 

It  will  not  be  improved  by  burning. 


358 


MY  PLEA. 


And  he  was  kind,  and  loved  to  sit 

In  the  low  hut  or  garnished  cottage, 
And  praise  the  fanner's  homely  wit, 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage: 
At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild ; 

And  when  his  hand  unbarred  the  shutter, 
The  clammy  lips  of  fever  smiled 

The  welcome  which  they  could  not  utter. 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Csesar,  or  of  Venus; 
From  him  I  learnt  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat's-cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Qnceyenus: 
I  used  to  singe  his  powdered  wig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in, 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  u>  jig, 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustine. 

Alack  the  change !  in  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  boyhood  trifled,— 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook, 

The  trees  I  climbed,  the  beds  I  rifled : 
The  church  is  larger  than  before; 

You  reacli  it  by  a  carriage  entry ; 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more, 

And  pews  are  fitted  up  for  gentry. 

Sit  in  the  Vicar's  seat :  you'll  hear 

The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 
Whose  hand  is  white,  whose  tone  is  clear, 

Whose  phrase  is  very  Ciceronian. 
Where  is  the  old  man  laid? — look  down, 

And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you, 
" Hie  jacet  GVLIFLM'-'S  Bwirx, 

Vir  n  ulld  non  donandus  lauru." 


TO  A  BELOVED  DAUGHTER. 

[Henry  Alford,  D.D.,  Dean  of  Canterbury,  born  in 
London,  7th  October,  1810;  died  12th  January,  1871. 
Author  of  Poems  and  Poetical  fragments :  The  School 
of  Hie  Heart;  Chapters  on  the  Pottt  of  Ancient  Greece; 
Psalms  and  Hymtit,  adapted  to  the  Sundays  and  Holy- 
days  throughout  the  Year;  Village  Sennonx,  Ac.  He 
edited  an  edition  of  the  New  Testament.  His  language 
is  always  simple  and  direct,  and  all  his  works  are  in- 
spired by  fervent  religious  feeling.  ] 

Say  wilt  thou  think  of  me  when  I'm  away, 
Borne  from  the  threshold  and  laid  in  the  clay, 
Past  and  unheard  of  for  many  a  day? 

Wilt  thou  remember  me  when  I  am  gone, 
Further  each  ye,ir  from  the  vision  withdrawn, 
Thou  in  the  sunset,  and  1  in  the  dawn  ? 

Wilt  thou  remember  me  when  thou  shalt  see, 
Daily  and  nightly  encompassing  thee, 
Hundreds  of  others,  but  nothing  of  me? 


All  that  I  ask  is  a  tear  in  thy  eye,     • 
Sitting  and  thinking  when  no  one  is  by, 
'Thus  look'd  he  on  me,  thus  rang  his  reply; — " 

'Tis  not  to  die,  though  the  path  be  obscure ; 
Vast  though  the  peril,  there's  One  can  aecuia ; 
Grand  is  the  conflict,  the  victory  sure ; 

But  'tis  to  feel  the  cold  touch  of  decay ; 
'Tis  to  look  back  on  the  wake  of  one's  way, 
Fading  and  vanishing  day  after  day ; 

This  is  the  bitterness  none  can  be  spared ; 
This  the  oblivion  the  greatest  have  shared; 
Thia  the  true  death  for  ambition  prepared. 

Thousands  around  us  are  toiling  as  we, 
Living  and  loving,  whose  lot  is  to  be 
Past  and  forgotten  like  waves  on  the  sea. 

Once  in  a  lifetime  is  uttered  a  word 

That  doth  not  vanish  as  soon  as  'tis  heard ; 

Once  in  an  age  is  humanity  ttirred; 

Once  in  a  century  springs  forth  a  deed 
From  the  dark  bands  of  forgtt.'iiluess  freed, 
Destined  to  shine,  and  to  bless,  and  to  le  id. 

Yet  not  even  thus  we  escape  from  our  lot — 
The  deed  lasts  in  memory — the  doer  lasts  not ; 
Tha  word  liveth  on,  but  the  voice  is  forgot. 

Who  knows  the  forms  of  the  mighty  of  old  ? 
Can  bust  or  can  portrait  the  spi,  it  unfold? 
Or  the  light  of  the  eye  by  description  Le  told? 

Nay,  even  He  who  our  ransom  became, 
Bearing  the  cross,  and  despising  the  .-hanie, 
Earning  a  name  above  every  name — 

They  who  had  handled  him  when  He  was  here 
Kejit  they  in  memory  His  lineaments  clear? 
Could  they  command  them  at  will  to  appe:ir? 

They  who  had  heard  Him  a7id  lived  in  His  voice. 

Say  could  they  always  recall  at  their  choice 

The  tones  and  the  cadence  which  made  them  rejoice? 

Be  we  content  then  to  pass  into  shade, 

Visage  and  voice  in  oblivion  laid. 

And  live  in  the  light  that  our  actions  have  made. 


MY  PLEA. 

Master,  whose  life  long  work  was  doinj;  .^Kid, 

Keep,  first  of  all,  my  body  out  of  pain  : 
Then,  whether  of  myself,  or  not,  I  wou.d, 
Make  me  within  the  universal  chain 

A  link,  whereby 

There  shall  have  been  accomplished  some  slight  gain 
For  men  and  women,  when  I  come  to  die. 

ALICE  CART, 


THE   WHITE   BOAT. 


359 


THE   WHITE   BOAT. 

A    STORY    OF    LA    VENDfiE. 

[Emile  Souvestre  is  one  of  the  very  few  French 
novelists  whose  works  are  pure  ia  thought  and  incident. 
His  most  important  work  is  the  Souvenirs  d'un  Baa- 
£  ret  on ;  but  he  has  written  many  others — several  specially 
for  children — and  all  in;iy  be  read  without  fear  of  en- 
countering any  indelicate  scene  or  suggestion.] 

The  traveller  who  visits  La  Vendee,  with 
the  stirring  memory  of  its  gigantic  struggle  of 
loyalty  versus  revolution  fresh  in  his  mind, 
and  looks  on  it  as  the  land  that,  in  the  short 
space  of  three  years,  became  the  grave  of  five 
Republican  armies,  as  well  as  of  the  greater 
proportion  of  its  own  heroic  population,  and 
was  thus  converted  into  a  vast  and  blood-steeped 
wilderness  of  smoking  ruin.s,  would  naturally 
expect  to  find  in  the  inhabitants  a  people  gloomy 
and  daring,  proud,  impetuous,  and  warlike. 

To  his  astonishment,  he  sees  himself  sur- 
rounded by  a  race  whose  character  is  in  every 
respect  the  reverse  of  this — quiet,  thoughtful, 
taciturn  almost  to  dulness,  and  whose  might, 
like  that  of  their  powerful  yoked  oxen,  slumbers 
and  asks  but  for  repose.  Such  is  the  case 
especially  in  the  hill-country  of  La  Vendee 
proper,  the  region  of  the  pure  Pictish  blood; 
the  people  of  the  plain  country  bordering  on 
old  Anjou  are  distinguished  by  greater  vivacity 
and  friendliness. 

It  is  in  contemplating  this  aspect  of  the 
Vendean  character  that  we  learn  to  estimate 
iJie  power  of  that  deadly  grasp  which  the  bold 
hand  of  revolution  must  have  laid  on  the  in- 
nermost sanctuary  of  popular  feeling  to  pro- 
voke an  outburst  of  resistance  so  vigorous  and 
so  long  sustained. 

But  if  the  physiognomy  of  the  Vendeans  be 
marked  by  a  general  sameness,  nothing  can  be 
more  varied  than  the  aspect  of  their  country. 
The  eastern  shore  is  indeed  barren,  dark,  and 
gloomy;  but  to  the  north  stretches  a  long  tract 
of  undulating  country,  rich  in  golden  meadows 
and  fertile  fields,  and  dotted  with  groups  of 
noble  forest-trees,  in  whose  shadow  nestles 
many  an  orchard-circled  chateau  and  peaceful 
hamlet:  while  here  and  there  may  be  seen  a 
large  and  populous  village,  with  spire  pointing 
to  the  skies.  The  high  hedges  and  deep-em- 
bowered lanes,  turned  to  such  good  account 
in  the  burgher  struggles  of  the  Chouan  warfare, 
are  still  the  peculiar  and  distinctive  character- 
istics of  the  scene.  This  is  indeed  the  Boccage; 
and  wherever  there  is  an  opening,  wide  tracts 
of  heath  are  seen,  offering  the  strongest  and 


most  picturesque  contrast  by  the  bright  blossoms 
of  the  yellow  furze  and  the  purple  glow  of  the 
heath  flower  to  the  solemn  edging  of  green  by 
which  they  are  bordered.  Totally  different  is 
the  appearance  of  La  Vendee  proper — a  long 
and  boundless  plain  of  waving  corn,  almost 
without  trees,  except  where  some  narrow  strip 
of  orchard  ground  points  to  the  neighbourhood 
of  chateau  or  village.  No  sooner  is  the  golden 
harvest  brought  in,  than  the  waste  and  dreary 
stubble-lands  are  covered  with  loads  of  lime, 
giving  to  them,  in  the  distance,  the  appearance 
of  an  interminable  battle-field  strewn  with 
bleaching  bones. 

Proceeding  onward  towards  the  south,  to  the 
marshes — the  Marais  as  it  is  called — we  again 
find  ourselves  in  a  new  world.  The  land  here 
shows,  like  an  accident,  an  exception — a  crea- 
tion of  art,  a  sort  of  rustic  Venice.  The  com 
and  the  fruit  seem  to  ripen  on  piles,  and  the 
flocks  to  be  grazing  on  floating  pastures.  Ever 
since  the  sixteenth  century  efforts  have  been 
made  to  reclaim  tracts  of  this  marsh  by  drainage 
on  the  Dutch  plan,  so  that  the  district  should 
rather  have  been  called  Little  Holland  than 
"Little  Poitou,"  as  it  is.  Some  business  con- 
nected with  one  of  these  recently-drained  tract* 
gave  me  the  long-desired  opportunity  of  seeing 
something  of  the  mode  of  life  of  the  Cabanneers 
• — the  name  by  which  the  inhabitants  of  the 
reclaimed  lands  are  known,  as  Hutters  is  that 
appropriated  to  the  dwellers  in  the  marsh. 

I  had  made  an  appointment  with  Guillaume 
Blaisot,  the  farmer  with  whom  my  business 
was  to  be  transacted,  to  meet  him  at  Marans, 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Sevre,  opposite  to  the  Isle 
of  Rh6,  in  Pertuis- Poitou.  I  reached  Maille- 
pais,  after  a  very  uncomfortable  journey,  by 
the  diligence,  hoping  to  proceed  by  water. 

As  I  was  waiting  at  the  door  of  the  little  inn 
for  the  arrival  of  the  boat  that  mine  host  h&d 
promised  me,  I  perceived  an  old  acquaintance 
approaching,  whom,  by  his  little  waxcloth  hat 
and  his  wooden  leg,  I  had  at  once  recognized 
as  Maitre  Berand,  better  known  as  Fait-tout. 
Berand  was  one  of  those  equivocal  traders  who 
get  a  livelihood  by  various  nameless  handicrafts, 
and  who,  in  common  parlance,  are  said  to  live 
by  their  wits.  He  now  assured  me  that  busi- 
ness called  him  in  the  direction  in  which  I  was 
going.  I  invited  him  to  embark  with  me  in 
the  boat,  which  at  that  moment  came  alongside. 
He  thankfully  accepted  my  invitation,  and  I 
thus  secured  a  companion  who,  if  not  altogether 
trustworthy,  was  at  least  well  acquainted  with 
the  country  and  its  inhabitants;  and  who  was, 
moreover,  himself  an  interesting  subject  far 
my  observation. 


360 


THE  WHITE  BOAT. 


Immediately  on  leaving  Maillepais  we  found 
ourselves  in  the  district  familiarly  known  as 
l.e  Marais  Mouill6,  and  a  wonderful  spectacle 
it  presented.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  it 
t.eemed  as  it  were  a  water  landscape  whereon 
numberless  islets,  fringed  with  willows  and 
ivy,  were  floating;  now  and  then  we  passed  a 
larger  one,  on  which  hemp  and  flax  were  cul- 
tivated. On  the  most  elevated  point  of  these 
little  islands  stand  the  solitary  dwellings  of 
the  H utters;  they  are  of  plaited  wicker-work, 
and  look  like  so  many  bee-hives.  They  have 
neither  window  nor  chimney,  and  the  door 
appears  too  low  for  a  full-grown  man  to  enter 
without  stooping.  We  could  generally  distin- 
guish a  fire  flickering  on  the  hearth,  and 
sending  its  smoke  through  all  the  interstices 
of  the  basket-work.  The  older  huts  are  often 
covered  with  a  mass  of  vegetation;  and  not  un- 
frequently  the  willow-wands  woven  into  the 
dwelling  bud  and*  sprout,  and  form  a  thick 
green  trellis-work  of  leafy  branches  around  the 
hut.  The  people  find  their  food  in  the  waters 
by  which  they  are  surrounded,  the  neighbouring 
towns  offering  a  ready  market  for  their  fish 
and  ducks.  In  winter,  when  the  waters  often 
rise  to  the  level  of  their  dwellings,  the  poor 
people  are  forced  to  take  refuge,  with  their 
wives  and  children,  in  their  boats,  which  are 
kept  by  them  ready  for  such  emergencies.  In 
tiiese  they  frequently  pass  long  days  and 
nights,  till  the  floods  are  abated. 

Our  passage  among  the  islets  was  much 
retarded  by  the  tangled  masses  of  the  water- 
lily,  the  leaves  of  which  were  thickly  spread 
over  the  surface;  and  our  approach  not  unfre- 
quently  scared  whole  flocks  of  wild  ducks  and 
other  water-fowl  from  their  shelter,  and  sent 
them  screaming  and  cackling  over  our  heads. 

The  Hutters  are  said,  by  the  proprietors  on 
the  coast,  to  have  very  inadequate  perceptions 
and  very  short  memories  of  the  distinction 
between  meurn  and  tuum.  My  companion, 
however,  soon  proved  that  this  confusion  of 
ideas  was  not  peculiar  to  the  islanders.  When- 
ever he  saw  a  snare  hanging  from  a  willow, 
he  hastened  to  the  spot;  if  the  jar  of  a  leech- 
gatherer  were  left  on  the  ground,  he  scrupled 
not  to  empty  it  into  his  own;  and  when  I  asked 
if  his  friends  on  the  islands  were  thus  solicitous 
to  provide  for  his  wants,  he  laughed,  and  said 
that  what  was  taken  from  a  Hutter  was  only 
indemnification;  for  that  when  he  went  round 
the  islands  with  his  pack,  the  wives  and 
maidens  were  not  particular  in  the  matte*  of 
needles  and  ribbons — a  cross  made  at  the  back 
of  any  article  going  in  evidence  that  it  was 
nut  stolen. 


As  I  wished  to  see  the  interior  of  one  of  these 
huts  we  drew  towards  the  shore,  and  I  landed. 
The  inside  was  incrusted  with  a  black  and 
shining  coating  of  soot.  In  the  dusky  back- 
ground two  cows  were  lying  down  and  chewing 
the  cud  at  their  ease  before  a  sort  of  rough  crib. 
This  was  the  only  piece  of  furniture  in  the  hut, 
with  the  exception  of  a  pair  of  earthen  pitchers, 
a  clumsy  stool,  and  a  hurdle  covered  with  a 
layer  of  moss;  on  this  lay  a  woman  whose 
appearance  showed  her  to  be  suffering  from  the 
biliary  fever  so  common  in  this  moist  and  fetid 
atmosphere.  To  our  words  of  comfort  she  at 
first  made  no  reply,  but  at  length,  rousing 
herself,  she  said — 

"What  good  can  anything  do  me?  I  have 
seen  the  White  Boat.  All  I  want  is  the  priest." 

These  words  had  evidently  a  startling  effect, 
not  only  on  the  sailor  who  had  accompanied 
us,  but  on  our  friend  Fait-tout,  notwithstanding 
his  habitual  readiness  to  parade  his  scepticism. 

'"The  White  Boat!'"  exclaimed  both  to- 
gether, in  a  half  whisper,  at  the  same  time 
looking  towards  the  shore. 

"Yes,  yes,"  continued  the  sick  woman,  with 
feverish  excitement;  "I  was  coming  with  a 
bundle  of  willows  from  the  other  side  of  the 
island,  and  there,  gliding  noiselessly  through  the 
channel,  I  saw  the  death-boat,  with  the  yellow 
dwarf  seated  at  the  helm;  and  as  I  passed  I  heard 
him  cough  and  groan ;  I  felt  his  poison  breath 
upon  me,  and  fell  to  the  ground.  My  husband 
found  me  and  brought  me  home,  and  I  have 
never  raised  my  head  since,  and  never  shall." 

I  endeavoured  to  soothe  the  poor  woman, 
and  to  explain  the  thing  away  as  an  optical 
delusion — but  all  in  vain ;  she  stared  wildly 
into  the  darkness,  and  my  companions  slipped 
quietly  away;  I  myself  felt  a  sort  of  indefinable 
dread,  thus  left  alone  in  the  dusky  hut  with 
the  dying  woman,  and  hastened  int«  the  air. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  boat  our  conver- 
sation was  in  monosyllables;  and,  in  order  to 
set  it  agoing,  I  made  some  inquiries  respecting 
the  young  Blaisot  whom  I  was  to  meet  at 
Marans.  At  the  sound  of  his  name  Fait-tout 
started  from  his  reverie,  but  made  as  though 
he  had  not  heard  me,  and  called  my  attention 
to  the  great  number  of  boats  that  were  lying 
in  a  little  bay  which  we  were  then  crossing. 
It  was  no  uncommon  sight,  but  he  wished  to 
divert  me  from  my  subject. 

We  soon  came  alongside  of  an  embankment, 
on  which  we  rather  heard  than  saw  some 
travellers — for  the  view  was  entirely  obstructed 
by  a  low  growth  of  willows  and  alders.  At 
intervals  the  plaintive  monotonous  chant  of 
some  shepherds  broke  upon  the  ear;  they  were 


THE  WHITE  BOAT. 


361 


singing  one  of  those  Christmas  carols  (Hymnes 
de  Noel  or  Nau)  wherein  the  shepherds  of 
Poitou  celebrate  the  glad  tidings  that  it  was 
given  to  the  shepherds  of  Palestine  to  hear  first. 

We  did  not  reach  Marans  till  late  in  the 
evening,  and  there  were  no  tidings  of  Blaisot  at 
the  inn.  To  my  repeated  and  urgent  inquiries 
the  host  replied  with  a  counter-question: 

"Do  you  mean  the  old  Jerome  Blaisot?" 

"No;  the  question  now  is  of  his  son,  Guil- 
laume,"  said  Fait-tout,  answering  for  me,  and 
with  singular  emphasis. 

"The  great  Guillaume!"  repeated  the  man, 
stepping  back  in  astonishment. 

"And  why  not?"  I  rejoined  sharply.  "I 
•have  very  good  grounds  for  expecting  him, 
having  made  an  appointment  with  him  to  take 
charge  of  a  business  which  is  likely  to  be  as 
advantageous  to  him  as  to  me.  I  should  rather 
ask  what  reason  he  can  have  for  staying  away." 

"Nay,"  replied  mine  host  with  some  hesita- 
tion, "how  can  any  third  person  assign  reasons 
for  another?  To-morrow  is  our  market-day, 
and  there  will  surely  be  some  of  Blaisot's  people 
in  the  town ;  you  can  ask  them,  s.r,  any  ques- 
tions you  please." 

"Ask,  indeed!"  muttered  Fait-tout  in  a 
mocking  tone,  as  I  moved  away  half-satisfied, 
and  the  host  devoted  himself  with  obsequious 
civility  to  some  freshly-arrived  guests. 

Marans  is  now  the  principal  port  of  La 
Vendee,  and  the  depot  of  the  export  fisheries, 
and  I  was  early  awakeaed  by  the  bustle  of  the 
market.  It  was  thronged  with  H  utters  bring- 
ing in  the  rich  spoils  of  the  fishing  and  the 
chase,  as  well  as  by  Cabanneers  and  the  peasants 
from  the  plain;  the  former  with  wool  and  flax, 
the  latter  with  heavy  loads  of  corn  and  wood, 
in  ponderous  waggons  drawn  by  six  yoke  of 
oxen.  Still,  all  my  inquiries  for  Blaisot  were 
unavailing;  and  the  evident  shyness  in  answer- 
ing— the  frequent  assumption  of  stupidity,  as 
though  they  could  not  understand  me — raised 
my  previous  uneasiness  to  the  highest  pitch. 

On  my  return  to  the  inn  I  found  Berand 
the  centre  of  a  wondering  circle,  and  prosecuting 
one  of  the  thousand  branches  of  his  vocation. 
He  was  etching,  an  allegorical  decoration  on 
the  arm  of  a  young  sailor,  and  had  been  profuse 
in  sentimental  verses  and  allusions;  he  now 
showed  me  his  work  with  evident  self-compla- 
cency. 

"  You  see  that  it  is  all  that  could  be  wished," 
he  said.  "Le  Fier-gas  could  desire  nothing 
better,  were  he  the  king  himself." 

"Ay,"  rejoined  the  young  man  whose  cog- 
nomen he  had  given,  "for  a  bright  half-dollar 
one  has  a  right  to  expect  something." 


"And  I  have  accordingly  given  you  the  'best 
article,'  my  son,"  said  the  artificer.  "The 
altar  of  love,  religion,  death  and  the  royal 
flower;  what  could  you  have  more?  You  and 
Le  Bien-nommg,  you  are  the  only  ones  to  whom 
such  luck  has  fallen." 

"Indeed,"  replied  the  young  man,  shaking 
his  head  emphatically;  "then  I  amtheonlyone, 
for  Le  Bien-nomme  lies  deep  beneath  the  water! " 

"  What  is  that  you  are  saying?" 

"It  is  so  indeed,"  said  another  of  the  by- 
standers; "his  body  has  never  been  seen,  but 
his  boat  was  found  keel  upward." 

"No  one  knows  how  it  happened,"  observed 
a  third.  "Some  say  that  he  met  the  Lady  of 
the  Pool!" 

"Who  is  that?"  said  I,  attracted  rather  by 
the  expression,  and  by  the  manner  of  the 
speaker,  than  by  the  fact  itself." 

"Why,  the  Lady  of  the  Pool  is  she  who 
entangles  the  boats  in  her  long  tresses,  and  so 
drags  them  down  into  the  deep." 

I  now  took  counsel  with  mine  host,  and  he 
advised  me  to  proceed  in  his  conveyance  to  the 
cottage  of  the  Blaisots,  which  he  said  was 
distant  about  a  mile  and  a  half.  Fait-tout 
would  be  my  conductor,  as  he  was  at  home, 
and  had  business  everywhere. 

The  matter  was  soon  arranged,  and  in  half 
an  hour  Berand  and  I  were  placed  side  by  side 
in  the  little  car,  with  a  board  for  our  seat. 
My  guide  had  plied  the  flask  so  deeply  in 
honour  of  his  last  performance,  that  it  was  not 
without  hesitation  that  I  committed  the  reins 
to  his  hand. 

We  soon  came  in  sight  of  the  long  tract  of 
land  reclaimed  from  the  waters.  Canals,  small 
and  great,  intersected  it  in  every  direction, 
and  emptied  themselves  by  an  infinity  of  sluices 
into  ponds  varying  in  size.  It  was  surrounded 
by  a  deep  ditch,  bordered  for  the  most  part 
with  oaks.  The  numerous  proprietors  and 
farmers  form  a  corporation  for  the  management 
of  the  drainage;  and  their  simple  and  appro- 
priate regulations  have  secured  to  them  a  large 
measure  of  independence,  amid  the  mechanism 
of  modern  centralization  and  the  despotism  of 
modern  liberality. 

The  rich  alluvial  soil  requires  no  manuring. 
Indeed,  that  it  was  covered  by  the  sea  within 
the  historical  period  is  proved  by  the  frequent 
discovery  of  snips'  keels  and  other  fragments, 
as  well  as  by  the  appearance  of  lofty  oyster- 
banks  here  and  there.  The  fallow  fields  afford 
a  generous  pasturage  to  numerous  herds  of 
oxen,  and  to  a  breed  of  the  heavy  horses  of  the 
country. 

The  sun  was  declining,  and  the  simple  but 


362 


THE  WHITE  BOAT. 


varied  landscape  was  bathed  in  rosy  light — all 
the  more  beautiful  from  its  contrast  with  the 
silvery  vapour  that  began  to  rise  from  the  lower 
grounds,  and  that  mingled  with,  and  broke  it 
into  a  thousand  rays  as  it  fell  on  the  pools  and 
the  broad  canals.  At  sunset  we  reached  Jerome 
Blaisot's  cottage — one  of  a  somewhat  different 
construction  to  the  greater  part  of  those  we 
had  previously  seen. 

In  a  field  by  the  roadside  I  saw  an  old  man 
and  a  child  keeping  sheep.  The  former  had 
a  sheepskin  coat  over  his  shoulders,  and  was 
resting  his  chin  upon  his  staff  and  looking 
attentively  at  us.  A  black  .sheep  of  unusual 
size  trotted  by  his  side  with  a  familiarity  that 
evinced  a  connection  of  a  peculiar  nature  be- 
tween them. 

"There  is  old  Jacques  the  shepherd  and  his 
Flemish  sheep,"  said  my  guide,  with  a  friendly 
greeting  to  the  old  man.  "Tlie  creature  gives 
three  times  as  much  wool  as  any  other  sheep, 
and  as  much  milk,  besides,  as  three  goats;  it 
belongs  to  him  as  the  chief  shepherd." 

"Ay,  ay,"  responded  the  old  man  in  reply 
to  the  last  words;  "it  is  with  this  beast  as  with 
the  King  of  France,  who  never  dies;  when  his 
time  is  out,  the  next  best  takes  his  place.  That 
is  my  right,  is  it  not,  La  Bien-gagne'e?"  he 
added,  affectionately  stroking  his  favourite, 
which  seemed  conscious  of  deserving  the  name. 

"At  them!  at  them,  Flandrine!"  said  the 
old  man  suddenly,  and  in  a  half-whisper,  to 
his  attendant;  and  in  a  moment  the  sensible 
creature  set  off,  and  soon  collected  the  straying 
sheep  together,  showing  as  much  zeal  as  dis- 
cretion in  the  conduct  of  the  affair. 

"How  have  you  been  able  to  teach  the  crea- 
ture this?"  said  I,  by  way  of  beginning  a 
conversation  with  the  old  man. 

"Well,  then,"  he  replied,  half- musing, 
"the  brute  creatures  only  need  to  be  reminded, 
you  see.  There  is  in  every  beast  some  trace  of 
its  great  Creator;  only  for  the  most  part  we 
tease  or  worry  this  out  of  them,  according  to 
our  selfish  will.  You  see,  sir,"  he  continued 
turning  directly  towards  me,  "we  are  always 
forgetting  that  the  shepherd  is  here  for  the 
sake  of  the  sheep,  and  not  the  sheep  on  account 
of  the  shepherd. " 

"And  instinct  is  powerful,"  I  added,  without 
bestowing  much  thought  on  the  subject. 

"And  so,  instinct  is  the  name  the  gentry 
give  it?  Well,  the  name  is  of  no  great  conse- 
quence. The  sheep,  like  all  the  brutes  that 
remember  the  earthly  paradise,  has  a  special 
gift.  You  cannot  find  it  out  by  thinking,  but 
my  Bien-gagnee  knows  whether  good  or  ill  luck 
is  to  befal  us  in  the  day." 


"Then  you  may  rest  in  peace,  my  friend," 
cried  my  conductor,  "for  the  brute  has  a  noble 
appetite,  and  that  is  the  best  sign  for  man  or 
beast  all  the  world  over.  And  now,  let  your 
youngster  show  the  gentleman  the  way  to 
Blaisot's,  for  I  want  to  go  in  a  contrary  direc- 
tion. Au  revoir,  sir!"  And  so  saying,  my 
mysterious  but  pleasant  companion  alighted, 
and  disappeared  at  once  behind  the  hedge. 
The  youngster,  however,  sprang  into  the  vacant 
seat,  and  carefully  drove  the  car  along  the 
narrow,  miry  road,  to  the  comfortable  dwelling 
of  the  Blaisots. 

As  we  were  approaching,  an  elderly  man 
came  out  and  hastily  advanced  to  meet  us. 
But  when  he  got  near  enough  to  distinguish 
our  features  he  suddenly  stopped,  and  without 
either  listening  to  or  answering  us,  kept  calling 
aloud  "Loubette!  Loubette!"  till  a  young 
maiden  stepped  over  the  threshold,  whom  at 
first  I  only  remarked  for  her  extreme  plainness, 
and  her  tall,  ungainly  form.  When  I  had  seen 
her  more  nearly  I  became  conscious  of  a  look 
of  energy  and  intelligence  in  the  depths  of  her 
large  gray  eyes,  that  glimmered  through  the 
dark  lashes  like  stars  through  the  mist. 

My  appearance  seemed  rather  to  surprise 
than  to  alarm  her.  With  an  air  of  mingled 
simplicity  and  good-breeding  she  invited  me 
to  enter.  I  found  that  Fait-tout  had  been 
right  in  advising  me  to  keep  to  Loubette;  she 
was  evidently  the  head  of  the  house.  On  my 
asking  for  her  brother  the  father  uttered  an 
exclamation;  but  a  warning  look  from  her 
restored  his  composure. 

"You  are,  then,  the  gentleman  who  sent 
the  letter  that  we  gave  back  to  the  postman 
two  days  ago?"  said  Loubette  quietly,  but  with 
a  penetrating  glance. 

"Gave  back  again?"  I  repeated;  "and  why 
did  you  do  that?" 

"Because  he  to  whom  it  was  addressed  is 
not  in  the  country." 

"Not  to  be  found  in  all  Little  Poitou!"  ex- 
claimed the  old  man. 

"But  you  know  where  he  is,"  I  rejoined; 
"you  could  have  given  the  postman  the  neces- 
sary instructions." 

"We  know  nothing,''  cried  the  father:  "and 
he  who  says  otherwise  is  no  friend  of  ours. 
The  tall  Guillaume  is  away  on  his  own  errand, 
without  either  consulting  or  revealing  it  to  us 
— and  this  I  do  solemnly  aver." 

"Yes,  yes,  father,"  interrupted  the  maiden; 
"you  see  that  the  gentleman  meant  well  by 
my  brother,  and  why  then  should  you  make  a 
disturbance  or  deny  him?  You  will  take  some 
refreshment  with  us,  sir?"  And  so  saying, 


THE  WHITE  BOAT. 


363 


she  covered  the  table,  and  thus  diverted  my 
questionings  and  my  curiosity. 

After  a  while,  and  when  he  had  taken  sundry 
long  pulls  at  the  cider-jug,  the  old  Blai.sot 
appeared  to  have  regained  his  self-possession, 
and  to  have  formed  some  great  resolution.  He 
began  by  asking  me  my  reason  for  coming, 
and  my  answers  had  the  effect  of  quieting  his 
suspicions  altogether;  and  without  any  further 
allusion  to  his  son,  we  talked  of  things  in 
general,  and  then  discussed  the  business  I  had 
in  hand,  and  the  conditions  on  which  it  could 
be  executed. 

By  degrees,  however,  and  with  the  deepening 
twilight,  the  conversation  flagged,  and  we  sat 
in  silence,  each  falling  back  upon  his  own 
thoughts.  Loubette  had  been  for  a  long  time 
silent,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  hearth,  whence 
the  embers  now  shot  up  a  ruddy  glow  that 
lighted  the  room  with  a  dazzling  glare,  and 
then  sinking  down  again,  cast  only  straggling 
rays  of  pale  and  flickering  light  around.  With- 
out, the  wind  sighed  and  moaned  in  half- 
whispers  through  the  thicket  of  reeds  across  the 
water,  and  came  blustering  with  louder  tones 
over  the  stubble-fields,  now  bringing  sounds  of 
other  kinds  from  the  far  distance,  so  that  even 
I  was  impressed  by  an  undefmable  sensation 
of  awe. 

Loubette  threw  fresh  branches  on  the  fire, 
which  soon  flared  brightly  and  cheerfully 
enough,  though  the  wood  was  very  wet,  and 
gave  out  all  sorts  of  strange  hissing  and  whistl- 
ing sounds  in  burning. 

"The  'Pavas'  weep;  that  is  a  bad  sign  for 
the  absent,"  said  Loubette,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
which  the  old  man  echoed  in  a  hollow  tone. 
"The  gentleman  brought  him  good  luck,"  con- 
tinued Loubette;  "  if  he  were  but  once  directed 
there,  he  and  others  might  forget  what" — 

Here  she  suddenly  broke  off. 

"No,  no,  it  is  all  in  vain!"  muttered  the  old 
man  to  himself.  "There  is  no  such  a  thing 
as  good  luck  for  one  who  has  been  rocked  on 
the  knees  of  the  dead. " 

I  inquired  what  he  meant  by  this. 

"  I  mean  what  my  own  eyes  have  seen," 
continued  he  with  mingled  emotion  and  reserve. 
"For  that  matter,  everyone  in  Vix  can  tell 
you  the  story  of  the  rocking-woman.  But  if 
you  wish  to  hear  it  from  me,  why,  with  all  my 
heart!  You  see,  sir,  it  was  in  the  time  of  the 
great  war,  when  1  was  newly  married.  It  was 
a  bad  time ;  and  whatever  pains  one  took 
everything  went  wrong.  Then  my  poor  Sillette 
(God  have  mercy  upon  her!)  gradually  lost  her 
spirits,  and  let  her  hands  drop  down,  or  sat 
with  them  folded,  instead  of  working  away 


where  work  was  much  needed — especially  us 
our  boy  William  was  then  born,  and  required 
to  be  taken  care  of.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  told 
her  of  it,  both  kindly  and  cros-sly.  I  used  oftea 
to  say  to  her:  'If  children  are  left  to  scream  at 
night,  the  old  people  in  the  grave  awake.'  It 
did  no  good;  she  let  him  scream  on,  and  oniv 
wrapped  herself  up  the  more  in  the  bed-clothes. 
So  the  child  dwindled  day  by  day,  till  it  was 
pitiful  to  see  him.  One  night,  when  I  wad 
half-asleep  myself,  I  thought  I  heard  a  hum- 
ming sound;  and  when  I  was  thoroughly  aroused, 
I  found  sure  enough  that  it  was  no  dream.  I 
sat  up  and  listened  again,  and  it  was  the 
humming  of  a  spinning-wheel.  And  when  I 
put  out  my  head  through  the  bed-curtains, 
there,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  in  the 
bright  moonlight,  sat  the  grandmother,  who 
had  been  under  the  sod  for  seven  years.  And 
she  spun  on  and  on,  rocking  the  child  upon 
her  knees  the  while.  Can  there  be  any  good 
fortune  for  that  poor  child,  who  was  made  over 
by  his  own  mother  to  the  nursing  of  the  dead? 
He  who  has  been  touched  by  the  dead  is  doomed 
to  misfortune!  There  is  no  blessing  upon  him. 
Something  deathlike  clings  to  him;  no  floiks, 
no  crops  prosper  under  his  care — the  hearts  of 
all  those  he  loves  turn  away  from  him.  And 
so  it  is  with  our  poor  William ;  and  it  is  not 
without  reason  that  he  is  called  'Mourning- 
child.'" 

"Did  you  ever  see  the  spinning  visitor  after 
that?"  inquired  I. 

"  I  took  good  care  not  to  do  so,"  replied  he. 
"Why,  every  child  knows  that  he  who  sees  one 
of  the  dead  return  a  second  time  may  as  well 
get  his  own  shroud  ready.  But  I  heard  the 
spinning-wheel  go  round — who  can  say  how 
often  ?  However,  the  child  throve  afterwards ; 
and,  strange  to  say,  he  seemed  to  turn  away 
from  his  mother  entirely,  and  attached  himself 
to  old  Marion,  the  stable- woman." 

We  now  sank  back  into  the  former  oppressive 
silence.  Loubette  went  up  and  down  the  room, 
busied  about  household  matters,  and  often  stood 
as  if  listening  at  the  window;  then  she  came 
and  sat  down  with  us  again.  Suddenly  a  most 
strange  and  piercing  cry,  like  that  of  a  biro, 
sounded  without.  Both  father  and  daughter 
started  up,  but  each  with  a  very  different  ex- 
pression of  countenance.  He  said  half-loud — 

"It  is  the  night  raven,  and  at  so  lite  an 
hour! — that,  too,  bodes  no  good." 

She  seemed  to  be  listening  intently;  and  as 
three  similar  sounds  were  heard  in  quick  succes- 
sion, each  drawing  nearer,  she  said  in  a  tremb- 
ling voice,  which  was  little  in  accordance 
her  words — 


364 


THE  WHITE  BOAT. 


"Ay,  a  boat  must  have  disturbed  him  in  his 
nest.  It  is  the  sleeping  time  of  beasts,  but 
the  eating  time  of  men.-  If  you  please,  sir, 
supper  is  now  ready." 

She  had  already  lit  a  lamp,  and  we  sat  our- 
selves down  to  a  table  covered  with  a  clean 
cloth,  and  well  provided  with  simple  fare.  As 
the  old  peasant  gradually  thawed,  and  threw 
off  the  curse  of  suspicion — the  sad  inheritance 
of  this  people — I  began  to  be  quite  comfortable; 
and  only  remarked,  after  a  while,  that  the  girl, 
who  had  often  risen  from  table  to  see  about 
one  thing  or  another,  as  well  as  about  my 
sleeping-quarters  for  the  night,  had  now  ab- 
sented herself  altogether. 

The  old  man  told  me  a  good  deal  about  his 
son — how  brave,  obedient,  and  industrious  he 
used  to  be,  and  how  he  had  been  betrothed  to 
a  wealthy  maiden  of  the  district;  who  had, 
however,  been  faithless  to  him,  and  taken 
another  person — and  how,  since  then,  he  had 
become  altered  in  everything.  He  was  even 
going,  in  answer  to  a  question  of  mine,  to 
explain  what  he  meant  by  this,  when  we  sud- 
denly heard  heavy  footsteps  and  the  clattering 
of  arms  outside,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  -the 
door  was  opened,  and  the  brigadier  of  the 
gendarmerie  of  Chaillg  entered  the  room  in  full 
uniform,  let  the  butt-end  of  his  musket  fall 
noisily  on  the  floor,  and  greeted  us  in  the 
peculiar,  jovial,  and  free-and-easy  tone  belong- 
ing to  his  class. 

Old  Jerome  rose,  then  sank  down  again  as 
pale  as  death;  and  the  glass,  which  he  took  up 
by  way  of  strengthening  his  courage,  rattled 
against  his  teeth. 

"Good  appetite  to  you,  sirs!  and  do  not  let 
me  disturb  you,"  said  the  gendarme,  casting 
a  keen  and  rapid  glance  around  the  room. 
"  How  goes  it  with  your  health,  Papa  Jerome?" 
continued  he,  as  the  old  man  sat  opposite 
him,  still  silent  and  motionless;  "and  where 
in  the  world  is  Loubette? — she  is  not  generally 
absent." 

"Loubette?"  said  the  old  man,  who,  as  it 
appeared  to  me,  really  did  not  at  the  moment 
know  where  she  was;  "why,  is  she  not  in  the 
kitchen?" 

"Old  fox,"  said  the  gendarme  in  a  sharper 
tone,  and  drawing  nearer,  "you  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  she  is  not;  and  now,  then,  out  with 
it  at  once — where  is  she?" 

"I — I  will  look  for  her,"  stammered  the 
peasant,  getting  up  and  going  towards  the 
door. 

"No  such  thing,  old  man;  you  are  not  to 
stir  from  this  spot;  and  let  us  have  no  more 
tricks,  if  you  please.  You  know  quite  well 


why  I  come,  and  we  know  just  as  well  that 
your  son  is  with  you  here." 

"My  son — my  William — here!"  exclaimed 
the  old  man  with  an  air  of  surprise  wh.ch  must 
have  appeared  natural  and  genuine  even  to  the 
gendarme.  At  least  he  continued  in  a  less 
harsh  tone: 

"Well,  whether  you  know  it  or  not,  he  is 
here,  and  we  must  take  him  up  as  a  refnictoire: 
so  be  reasonable,  and,  at  all  events,  get  hold 
of  the  girl  for  me." 

Blaisot  swore  by  all  the  saints  of  Upper  and 
Lower  Poitou  that  he  knew  nothing  about  it; 
that  his  son  had  never  told  him  a  word.  By 
this  exaggeration  of  ignorance  he  only  awoke 
again  the  suspicion  of  the  brigadier. 

"We  know  you,"  he  exclaimed,  stroking  his 
moustaches;  "everything  is  white  here;  and 
before  you  will  help  a  servant  of  the  govern- 
ment so  much  as  with  your  little  finger — but 
wait  a  little,  and  we  will  soon  manage  you." 

The  old  man  now  declared  in  the  most  elo- 
quent manner  his  attachment  to  the  July 
dynasty,  and  his  ignorance  respecting  any 
offence  committed  against  any  government 
whatsoever. 

.  "  Hold  your  peace,  you  old  hypocrite ! " 
replied  the  soldier  with  a  certain  degree  of 
restored  confidence  in  his  tone.  "  Do  not  we 
know  you  of  old?  Did  not  you  do  just  the 
same  when  you  were  thirty  or  forty  years 
younger  ?  Sure  I  am  it  is  not  so  serious  an 
affair  as  it  was  then.  The  Blues  did  not  under- 
stand a  joke;  and  a  bullet  or  the  guillotine 
soon  made  an  end  of  the  refractory.  But  still, 
mind  what  you  are  about,  for  the  prison  and 
the  galleys  are  no  trifle  either,  and  an  execution 
in  the  house — I  say,  old  fellow!" 

The  poor  man  would  perhaps  have  been  able 
to  bear  all  threats  against  life  and  liberty 
stoically  enough,  but  the  thought  of  being 
deprived  of  his  goods  and  chattels  by  an  exe- 
cution woke  up  his  covetousness — the  heredi- 
tary vice  of  the  peasants  of  Poitou — and  he 
lost  all  control. 

"  Forthesakeof  the  holy  Virgin,M.  Durand," 
he  piteously  exclaimed,  with  his  hands  clasped, 
"do  but  believe  me!  William  has  never  returned 
home  since" 

Here  he  stopped,  having  observed  the  scru- 
tinizing glance  cast  at  him  by  his  tormentor, 
and  continued  in  a  less  doleful  tone: 

"  It  has  been  through  no  fault  of  mine:  how 
much  I  said  to  him  when  the  lot  fell  upon  him 
— and  how  I  told  him,  over  and  over  again, 
that  he  must  make  up  his  mind  and  obey,  and 
be  no  '  bush  recruit.'  But  you  know  very  well, 
my  good  M.  Brigadier,  as  well  as  all  Lower 


THE  WHITE  BOAT. 


Poitou  does,  that  since  his  betrothed  jilted 
him  and  married  another  man,  there  is  no 
getting  him  to  leave  the  country,  even  though 
he  were  as  free  as  a  bird  on  the  tree." 

"That  is  the  very  thing,  old  man,"  exclaimed 
the  gendarme  in  triumph.  ' '  He  cannot  leave 
Louise;  and  yesterday  he  was  seen  at  Vallem- 
breuse,  and  is  it  likely  that  his  own  father 
should  not  know  where  he  spent  the  night? 
But  now  we  have  had  prattle  enough;  we  must 
search  the  house  thoroughly,  and  if  we  have 
to  dig  up  the  hearthstone  to  find  him,  yet  find 
him  we  must!" 

He  was  moving  quickly  towards  the  door, 
when  Loubette's  voice  was  heard  outside  in  loud 
disputation,  as  it  soon  appeared,  with  the 
brigadier's  men  who  were  stationed  without. 
One  of  them  dragged  her  in,  while  she  struggled 
violently,  and  defended  herself  with  her  tongue 
most  courageously: 

"Is  this,  then,  the  law,  right,  and  good 
order  of  the  day,  to  say  nothing  of  its  polite- 
ness," cried  she  with  her  harsh  but  full-toned 
voice;  "  that  a  virtuous  girl  should  be  treated 
like  a  criminal,  when  she  comes  home  from  the 
field?" 

"Why,  only  see  now!  the  mistress  of  the 
house!"  exclaimed  the  brigadier  tauntingly. 
' '  And  may  we  ask  where  thou  coniest  from  so 
late,  old  lady?" 

"  From  a  place  where  it  is  not  usual  to  say 
'  thou '  to  girls  one  has  not  the  honour  of 
knowing,  M.  Gendarme,"  answered  Loubette 
with  a  degree  of  boldness  that  had  something 
of  the  heroic  when  contrasted  with  her  father's 
embarrassment. 

After  the  dialogue  had  been  carried  on  a 
while  in  this  tone,  growing  even  bitterer  and 
bitterer,  the  experienced  old  soldier  observed 
that  she  only  pretended  to  be  indignant  to 
conceal  her  distress  and  confusion,  as  well  as 
to  gain  time,  and  induce  him,  through  very 
anger,  to  abandon  the  part  he  had  to  play. 

He  therefore  quickly  composed  himself,  and 
said  in  a  tone  of  grave  and  ironical  politeness — 

"Now,  then,  we  will  take  hold  of  the  ques- 
tion with  silk  gloves,  and  perhaps  Miss  Loubette 
will  have  the  great  kindness  to  inform  us  where 
she  has  just  come  from." 

"Why,  if  you  are  quite  bent  upon  knowing 
this  great  secret,  I  have  been  taking  the  shep- 
herd his  supper." 

The  gendarmes  at  once  confronted  her — they 
had  caught  her  coming  from  the  very  opposite 
direction.  But  Loubette  was  not  to  be  puzzled 
by  this.  She  asserted  that  although  she  had 
gone  round  to  the  field  where  the  sheep  were 
feeding  by  the  meadow,  that  had  only  been  for 


the  purpose  of  fetching  the  sickle,  which  she 
had  forgotten  at  noon. 

"  Or  perhaps  you  may  think  that  I  wanted 
to  cut  old  Jerome's  bread  with  the  sickle," 
added  she  with  a  sneer,  as  she  threw  down  the 
sickle,  which  she  really  drew  from  under  her 
apron. 

The  brigadier  now  tried  to  catch  her  by  alt 
manner  of  artful  questions  and  assertions;  but 
she  parried  them  so  well,  that  he  began  to 
contradict  himself,  and  knew  no  longer  what 
he  was  about. 

"  There's  no  catching  the  subtle  creature !" 
he  exclaimed  at  last,  in  dudgeon.  "And 
there's  no  dragging  the  truth  out  of  the  stupid 
old  Chouans  either.  Two  of  you  stay  here  to 
watch  these  people,  and  the  rest  of  us  will 
rummage  the  whole  place — he  must  be  here." 

The  brigadier  had  taken  no  further  notice  of 
me  than  that  implied  in  his  first  curt  greeting, 
for  he  knew  me  before.  But  I  plainly  saw  that 
he  found  my  presence  inconvenient.  I  followed 
him  to  the  house-door,  and  heard  one  of  the 
gendarmes  say  to  him,  "  Was  not  that  a  boat 
that  glided  over  the  water  behind  the  bushed 
yonder?" 

In  fact,  we  soon  heard  the  sound  of  oars,  and 
the  trilling  of  a  cheerful  song,  then  a  scream, 
and  a  momentary  silence;  then  some  quick 
oar-strokes,  a  rustling  in  the  thicket;  and,  an 
instant  after,  the  vagabond  Berand,  my  tra- 
velling companion,  rushed  towards  the  house, 
breathless,  and  evidently  beside  himself,  and 
threw  himself  down  upon  the  bank  before  the 
door.  At  once  assailed  by  the  brigadier,  who 
not  unreasonably  charged  him  with  being  an 
old  drunkard,  he  broke  out  in  the  following 
unconnected  sentences — 

"I  have  seen — seen  him!  There — there — 
I  tell — I  tell  you.  He  glided  in  his  white 
boat  out  from  the  bushes — and — and — under 
the  trees  opposite — and  he  was  gone!" 

"  But  who  there — what  there,  in  the  name 
of  all  that  is  holy  1"  screamed  out  the  brigadier 
in  his  impatience. 

"Who?  He!"  was  the  low  reply;  "the 
white  boat,  and  the  little  yellow  man  at  the 
helm  !  And  he  had  a  corpse  in  its  white  grave- 
clothes  lying  across  the  boat  before  him;  its 
head  was  hanging  over  the  water  !" 

"  The  wooden  leg  is  drunk ;  he  has  been 
dreaming!"  laughed  the  brigadier. 

"Would  to  God  I  had  dreamed  it,  and  were 
not  sober!"  said  poor  Berand,  who  had  indeed 
been  pretty  effectually  sobered  by  the  fright. 
"  But  I  have  not  only  seen  but  heard.  'Turn 
back,  unhappy  man!'  the  figure  exclaimed, 
'  or  I  will  turn  thee  round  aud  round. '  Tto 


366 


THE  WHITE  BOAT. 


brandj-  still  gave  me  courage  to  answer,  '  Man 
or  woman,  whom  hast  thou  there?'  But  it 
cried  out  in  a  voice  that  went  through  the 
marrow  of  my  bones,  'I  have  got  tall  William 
to-day,  and  in  eight  days  I  shall  have  thee !' 
That  was  enough  for  me  ;  and  here  I  am,  thank 
God,  at  least  on  dry  land  still ;  and  in  eight 
days  hence  I  shall  take  pretty  good  care  to  be 
far  enough  from  here!" 

Scarcely  had  the  cripple  named  the  name  of 
William  than  the  brigadier  hurried  off,  with  an 
exclamation,  to  the  canal,  and  all  his  party 
after  him.  We  heard  the  click  of  their  muskets 
as  they  cocked  them  in  setting  off;  next,  we 
heard  the  brigadier  call  out  three  times,  and 
then  a  gun  was  fired:  and  on  hastening  to  the 
place  whence  the  sound  came,  we  found  the 
gendarmes  collected  on  the  bank  of  the  side 
canal,  by  which  Blaisot's  land  was  bounded, 
and  occupying  a  portion  of  the  causeway  from 
which  one  could  see  part  of  the  great  canal  and 
its  nearest  ramifications. 

"  If  the  little  yellow  man  has  escaped  us,  he 
has  at  all  events  left  his  freight  behind  him," 
called  out  the  brigadier  as  he  pointed  towards 
a  moonlit  spot  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  small 
canal  which  belonged  to  Blaisot's  land.  With 
horror  we  discovered  a  corpse  stretched  out  at 
full  length  in  the  moonlight.  The  gendarmes 
brought  out  the  boat  in  which  our  wooden- 
legged  friend  had  just  arrived,  and  went  to 
fetch  the  body.  Scarcely  had  they  laid  it  down 
upon  the  dyke  than  Loubette,  followed  by  her 
father  and  their  guard,  rushed  towards  it, 
kneeling  down  to  look  at  the  face,  and  find- 
ing it  unrecognizable  through  decomposition, 
snatched  at  the  right  hand  of  the  corpse,  and 
exclaiming,  "Holy  Virgin,  it  is  my  brother!" 
sprang  up,  and  held  out  a  ring  to  her  father, 
with  the  names  of  William  and  Louise  in- 
scribed on  it,  and  a  flaming  heart  between 
them. 

After  the  first  outburst  of  grief,  the  girl  soon 
attained  to  a  remarkable  degree  of  outward 
composure ;  though  there  was  certainly  some- 
thing overstrained  and  excited  about  it ;  and 
it  was  often  interrupted  by  almost  convulsive 
gestures,  wringing  of  the  hands,  and  deep- 
drawn  sobs.  However,  it  was  such  as  enabled 
her  to  give  all  the  orders  she  deemed  necessary. 

Agreeably  to  her  directions  the  corpse  was 
taken  to  an  outbuilding  near  the  house,  to 
which  Loubette  made  her  escape  as  soon  as  she 
had  with  inconceivable  celerity  prepared  every- 
thing against  the  arrival  of  guests. 

The  old  father  appeared  quite  broken  down, 
and  almost  childish  with  grief  and  horror; 
and,  with  lamentable  groans  and  unconnected 


cries,  he  meekly  allowed  himself  to  be  led  back 
to  the  arm-chair  in  his  own  room. 

Either  by  the  shot,  or  by  the  sort  of  presen- 
timent or  instinct  which  never  fails  to  draw 
people  to  a  place  where  a  calamity  has  occurred, 
even  before  any  definite  tidings  of  it  can  have 
had  time  to  reach  them,  a  number  of  the 
country  people  of  the  neighbouring  district 
were  soon  collected.  Loubette  was  now  busily 
occupied;  for  according  to  the  popular  custom, 
which  makes  a  death,  as  well  as  a  wedding  or 
a  christening — joy  and  sorrow  alike — a  pre- 
text for  eating  and  drinking,  she  had  to  pro- 
vide both  food  and  liquor,  during  which  task 
she  seemed  to  be  struggling  rather  with  anxiety 
than  grief.  Old  Jerome  welcomed  each  arrival 
with  loud  lamentations,  which  did  not,  how- 
ever, interfere  with  his  activity  in  passing 
round  the  jug. 

As  soon  as  Loubette  had  attended  to  her 
guests,  and  especially  seen  that  the  gendarmes 
were  favourably  placed  as  regarded  the  circu- 
lation of  the  cider-jug  and  the  brandy-pitcher, 
she  hurried  out  again,  and  placed  at  the  thresh- 
old of  the  little  outhouse,  where  lay  the 
corpse,  covered  with  a  coarse  linen  cloth,  two 
lighted  candles,  which  were  not  rendered  super- 
fluous by  the  dawning  light — for  it  was  a  dark 
corner  enough. 

The  maiden  was  seated  at  the  entrance"  with 
her  head  covered,  and  as  one  neighbour  after 
another  came  in,  she  appeared  neither  to  see 
nor  hear,  and  kept  all  at  a  distance  by  the 
violence  of  her  emotion ;  so  that  even  those 
who  would  fain  have  taken  a  nearer  look  at  the 
body,  refrained  from  passing  her  to  do  so. 
Each  fresh  comer  was  contented  with  a  hasty 
glance  and  a  murmured  prayer,  and  then  with- 
drew. 

After  a  while  the  aged  shepherd  presented 
himself,  a  venerable  form,  that  seemed  rather 
to  belong  to  other  times. 

"  This  also  comes  in  the  train  of  old  age," 
he  said  in  a  half-whisper,  as  he  remained  stand- 
ing close  to  Loubette.  "  The  son  of  the  house, 
whose  birth  I  commemorated,  lies  dead  upon 
the  bier,  and  the  daughter  sits  weeping  at 
the  threshold!" 

"God  is  proving  our  faith  and  patience, 
Master  Jacques,"  replied  the  girl,  looking  up 
as  if  struggling  with  contending  purposes,  and 
then,  deeply  moved,  looked  sadly  in  the  old 
man's  face,  as  he  continued  his  waitings. 

He  placed  his  broad  hand  upon  her  head,  as 
if  to  bless  her ;  but  his  consolations  only  in- 
creased her  grief,  for  he  spoke  of  the  virtues 
of  the  deceased,  who  was  evidently  an  object 
of  affection  to  the  whole  neighbourhood.  At 


THE  WHITE  BOAT. 


367 


length,  groaning  deeply,  he  shaded  his  face 
w.th  his  hands,  and  the  few  large  tears  that 
trickled  slowly  over  his  furrowed  cheeks 
Mjemed  as  though  wrung  by  the  greatness  of 
his  agony  from  fountains  that  had  long  been 
dry.  He  now  made  a  movement  towards  the 
corpse,  and  at  first  Loubette  appeared  in- 
clined to  hinder  his  advance,  but  checking 
herself,  she  muttered  in  an  undertone,  "The 
gray-head  will  not  betray  us!"  and  followed 
him  with  looks  of  earnest  attention. 

He  lifted  the  cloth  that  covered  the  face,  but 
let  it  fall  again  immediately.  There  was  no 
trace  of  identity ;  and  the  spectacle  revealed  by 
the  uncertain  light  was  one  of  horror.  The  pet 
sheep,  which  had  accompanied  the  old  man, 
and  at  first  attentively  sniffed  the  air  around 
the  corpse,  now  turned  unconcerned  away — a 
great  offence  in  the  eyes  of  old  Jerome. 

"  I  have  thought  more  highly  of  the  beast 
than  it  deserved,"  he  said  sullenly.  "  It  is  no 
better  than  the  children  of  men!  Should  you 
not  recognize  your  master's  son,  living  or  dead 
— even  though  his  features  be  disfigured  ?  But 
such  is  the  way  of  the  world — to  have  no 
memory  for  the  absent  and  the  dead ! "  And  so 
saying,  he  withdrew,  accompanied  by  the  black 
sheep,  which  looked  half -ashamed,  half -sur- 
prised at  his  reproof. 

The  brigadier,  finding  I  had  studied  the  law, 
had  asked  me  to  visit  the  body,  and  to  draw  up 
the  proccx-verbal  of  the  finding  of  the  corpse. 
Berand  offered  to  assist  me,  as  he  had  experi- 
ence in  such  matters. 

On  the  discovery  of  a  corps  malheMreux — as 
a  body  whose  manner  of  death  is  suspicious  or 
doubtful  is  termed  in  this  country — it  fre- 
quently happens  that  the  next  of  kin  devolve 
the  duties  of  preparing  it  for  burial  on  an 
official  styled  the  Gravedigger  of  the  Lost,  who 
is  seldom  a  person  of  good  repute,  although 
the  pay  is  excellent.  Master  Fait-tout  seemed, 
nevertheless,  accustomed  to  the  work ;  and  his 
help  was  very  acceptable,  for  it  was  no  pleasant 
task ;  and  I  wrote  down  what  he  dictated  in 
answer  to  my  inquiries. 

On  a  sudden,  as  he  was  busied  with  the  right 
arm,  he  burst  into  a  loud  exclamation  of  aston- 
ishment. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  I  cried. 

"Wnat  is  the  matter!"  he  replied  softly, 
coming  uearerthan  was  agreeable  to  me;  "what 
do  you  see  on  this  arm?" 

"I  see  a  tattooing  mark,  such  as  you  were 
making  at  the  inn  at  Marans." 

"Just  so;  the  grand  piece — the  altar,  the 
lily,  the  cross  and  a  cipher.  Now,  except  the 
lad  on  whom  I  etched  it  this  morning,  there  is 


only  one  in  all  Lower  Poitou  who  has  the  grand 
piece  on  his  arm;  and  that  is,  or  was — not 
Guillaumc  Blaisot,  but  Pierre  Sauvage,  called 
the  Well-reputed,  who  was  drowned  a  week  ago, 
no  one  knew  where,  or  how,  and  now" 

A  half-suppressed  scream  prevented  the  com- 
pletion of  tiie  sentence,  and  on  looking  round 
we  saw  Loubette  standing  erect  at  the  entrance, 
pale,  and  with  dishevelled  hair  and  flaming 
eyes,  and  her  arm  stiffly  extended. 

"Come  hither,  maiden!"  he  exclaimed, 
"your  brother  is  alive!  At  least,  this  is  no 
more  he  than  it  is  the  Pope  of  home." 

But  her  emotion  was  at  first  too  great  for 
words;  and  when  she  did  speak,  the  accents 
were  not  those  of  joy,  but  of  anguish  and 
terror — 

"  On  thy  life — on  thine  everlasting  salva- 
tion, say  not  another  word !  And  who  allowed 
you  to  meddle  with  the  dead?  what  business 
have  you  here?"  she  added  with  a  deep  groan, 
at  the  same  time  approaching  him. 

I  quieted  her  with  a  few  words  of  explana- 
tion, and  an  assurance  that  she  might  trust  me. 
She  grasped  my  hand,  but  cast  a  look  of  suspi- 
cion on  my  assistant.  The  latter,  after  a  short 
pause,  during  which  he  displayed  more  feeling 
than  was  his  wont,  exclaimed — 

"Now  I  see  it  all!  You  knew  that  it  waa 
not  Guillaume?" 

She  nodded  assent. 

"You  are  a  brave  lass,  and  I  understand 
the  game ;  and  may  the  deuce  take  me  if  I 
meddle  or  mar !  I've  no  such  liking  for  the 
bloodhounds,  especially  since  '  the  glorious 
days'  in  Paris  yonder.  So,  my  word  upon  it, 
I'm  silent." 

"  Now  I  know  the  meaning  of  the  bird-call," 
said  I  to  Loubette;  "a  signal  that  Guillaume 
was  there  with  the  corpse,  was  it  not  ?" 

Again  she  nodded  and  whispered,  faintly 
smiling — 

"He  had  most  fortunately  seen  it  lying  in 
the  mud  and  slime  at  the  border  of  a  little 
creek  two  hours  ago,  and  had  arranged  it  all 
with  me.  He  is  in  concealment,  while  he  is 
supposed  to  be  dead,  and  the  hue  and  cry  it 
thus  stopped.  He  hovers  about  here  a* 
though  Louise  had  bewitched  him,  and  declares 
that  he  must  see  and  speak  to  her  yet  once 
more."  She  turned  again  to  Berand — 

"You  keep  our  secret?"  she  said,  looking 
earnestly  at  him,  and  holding  out  her  band. 

He  was  about  to  grasp  it,  when  he  suddenly 
drew  back,  and  exclaimed — 

"  Not  so  fast!  Your  fine  brother,  then,  was 
the  yellow  dwarf  with  the  hollow  cough,  and 
the  corpse  in  his  White  Boat,  who  gave  me 


363 


THE  WHITE  BOAT. 


such  a  fright  as  he  chased  me  on  the  water?— 
No,  that  was  too  much — that's  not  to  be  for- 
given !  To  make  such  a  fool  of  me,  and  terrify 
me,  like  a  child  with  a  scarecrow!  We'll  see 
wiiat  the  brigadier  says  to  that  game!" 

I  strove  to  appease  him ;  but,  unluckily, 
another  weight  dropped  into  the  wrong  balance. 

"No,  no,"  said  he;  "what  a  fool  I  should 
have  been !  The  Sauvages  have  offered  fifty 
pounds  for  the  body  of  their  son,  and  I  may  as 
well  have  the  reward  as  anyone  else." 

He  was  rushing  out,  but  she  stood  in  the 
doorway,  and  placing  both  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  and  looking  at  him  with  sharp  and 
earnest  gaze,  while  her  cheeks  glowed  with  the 
excitement  of  her  situation,  she  said  in  a  calm 
but  harsh  and  determined  voice — 

"Look  well  to  yourself,  wooden-leg;  you 
have  a  choice  to  make.  Are  we  in  future  to 
be  friends  or  foes?  Give  me  your  word  that 
you  will  say  no  more  than  you  are  asked,  and 
from  this  hour  you  have  a  home  in  the  house 
of  the  Blaisots — and  you  know  the  value  of 
such  a  home  to  you  and  the  like  of  you.  Or 
say  but  a  word,  make  but  a  sign — a  gesture 
that  may  involve  peril  to  my  brother,  and  you 
have  Loubette  Blaisot  for  your  deadly  enemy 
— and  Loubette  keeps  her  word  for  good  and 
for  evil.  If  you  know  it  not,  ask  throughout 
Lower  Poitou;  and  then,  old  man,  ask  yourself 
whether  it  can  bring  you  either  honour  or 
profit  in  this  country  to  betray  a  loyal  Ven- 
dean  to  the  gendarmerie?  Guillaume  is  lost  if 
he  is  not  dead!  Do  you  understand?  As  to 
the  promise  of  the  Sauvages,  the  Blaisots  can 
fulfil  it  as  well." 

A  host  of  conflicting  feelings  was  struggling 
in  the  man's  breast.  It  was  mortified  vanity 
alone  that  had  caused  him  to  swerve  from  his 
original  friendly  resolution;  and  thus,  when  I 
told  him  that  if  he  did  not  himself  represent 
his  fright  as  a  mere  idle  joke,  in  order  to  jus- 
tify his  treacherous  betrayal  of  the  young 
Blaisot,  no  one  in  the  country  Avould  for  a 
moment  doubt  the  fact  of  a  spectral  appear- 
ance, or  regard  his  terror  as  otherwise  than 
perfectly  natural  —  he  was  pacified,  and  able 
to  estimate  Loubette's  promised  gratitude,  as 
well  as  her  threatened  vengeance,  at  their 
proper  value.  He  now  put  his  hand  into  that 
which  she  again  held  out — 

"  Done  ! — I  keep  counsel." 

It  was  indeed  high  time  that  we  came  to  an 
understanding,  for  during  the  discussion  all 
the  neighbours  had  withdrawn,  and  the  brig- 
adier had  called  twice ;  and  scarcely  had  we 
turned  again  towards  the  corpse,  while  Lou- 
bette resumed  her  place  and  attitude  at  the 


entrance,  when  he  appeared,  and  inquired  if 
the  deposition  were  not  yet  ready,  as  it  was 
time  he  should  be  setting  out.  I  hastily  wrote 
the  concluding  words,  and  handed  the  docu- 
ment to  him.  He  scarcely  looked  at  it ;  and 
it  was  evident  that  the  cider  had  done  its  work. 
Calling  his  men  together,  he  departed  with 
them  and  old  Jerome  to  make  his  deposition 
before  the  nearest  magistrate.  The  old  shep- 
herd would  fain  have  taken  another  look  at  the 
corpse,  but  this  Loubette  prevented. 

"He  knows  nothing  of  it,"  she  whispered 
in  my  ear,  shrugging  her  shoulders,  and  shak- 
ing her  head  significantly. 

No  sooner  had  the  tread  of  the  gendarmes 
and  the  clang  of  their  weapons  died  away  in 
the  distance,  than  Loubette,  who  had  been  in- 
tently listening,  sprang  to  the  back-door,  and 
twice  repeated  the  bird-call  that  I  had  heard 
at  the  beginning  of  the  evening.  After  a  few 
minutes  I  heard  her  speaking  with  some  one, 
and,  in  company  with  a  young  peasant,  she 
walked  into  the  room,  to  which,  unable  any 
longer  to  bear  the  neighbourhood  of  the  corpse, 
I  had  betaken  myself. 

Fait-tout  now  proved  his  right  to  his  name 
by  undertaking  to  dig  a  grave  in  the  garden, 
and  to  superintend  the  interment  of  the  de- 
ceased, by  which  the  gendarmes,  as  well  as  the 
neighbours,  asserted  that  he  had  sought  his 
own  death,  and  had  thus  forfeited  all  claim  to 
Christian  burial. 

As  Loubette  came  in  leading  her  brother, 
the  likeness  between  them  was  very  striking; 
and  those  traits  which  took  from  her  the  soft- 
ness of  womanly  attractiveness  rendered  him 
a  type  of  manly  beauty.  He  was  an  active, 
well-looking  fellow,  in  spite  of  the  hardships 
that  he  had  recently  endured  while  he  had 
been  wandering  about  like  a  criminal  or  a 
baited  wolf. 

On  seeing  me  he  retreated  a  step,  and  put 
his  hand  in  his  vest  as  if  seeking  a  weapon, 
but  Loubette  soon  reassured  him. 

When  the  first  greetings  were  over,  and  he 
had  offered  me  a  few  words  of  thanks,  Lou- 
bette interrupted  us,  reminding  him  that  it 
was  time  to  refresh  himself. 

"  For  you  cannot  stay  here,"  she  added, 
with  a  heavy  sigh;  and  for  a  moment  it  ap- 
peared that  the  struggle  of  her  full  heart  was 
about  to  find  relief  in  tears.  She  rallied,  how- 
ever, and  resumed  her  usual  calmness  of  bear- 
ing; it  was  as  though  hers  were  a  life  of  action, 
not  of  emotion. 

And  yet  with  what  motherly  tenderness  she 
now  ministered  to  her  brother,  carefully  ap- 
propriating to  him  his  place,  his  cup,  his 


THE  WHITE  BOAT. 


369 


spoon ;  anxious  to  give  him  yet  once  more  the 
full  impression  of  home.  It  was  touching  to 
see  him  fold  his  hands  in  prayer  before  he  cut 
the  bread. 

"  It  is  the  first  of  the  new  wheat,"  said 
Loubette;  "I  would  not  use  any  till  you  were 
with  us." 

"God  bless  thee,  my  sister!  I  praise  Him 
that  He  has  permitted  me  to  taste  again  the 
corn  of  our  paternal  fields  for  the  last  time," 
he  added  slowly,  and  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh. 

He,  however,  turned  to  the  table,  and  set  to 
in  good  earnest  as  though  he  were  making  a 
meal  that  might  carry  him  through  more  than 
one  day.  Between  whiles  he  asked  a  hundred 
questions  about  all  the  little  matters  that  had 
occurred  in  field  and  stable  during  his  absence; 
and  in  the  interest  of  these  domestic  details 
both  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  perilous 
circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed.  I  was 
compelled  to  remind  him  that  if  there  were 
nothing  more  to  be  apprehended  than  the 
return  of  his  father,  the  meeting  with  him 
must  be  avoided,  as  he  was  not  in  the  secret. 
When  Guillaume  was  away,  he  might  know 
all  with  safety.  At  the  same  time  I  offered 
to  take  him  with  me  to  Marans,  from  whence 
he  could  readily  get  across  the  country.  It 
was  so  early  that  we  ran  but  little  risk  of 
meeting  neighbours  on  the  road,  and  in  case 
of  a  straggler  or  two  he  could  contrive  to  hide 
his  face. 

He  accepted  the  proposal,  and  slowly  arose 
from  his  seat  in  the  home  of  his  youth. 

"  God's  will  be  done!  but  it  is  hard  for  a  son 
to  shun  his  own  father,  and  steal  from  his  own 
home  like  a  felon!"  said  he  as  he  grasped  his 
staff  and  took  the  bundle  which  his  sister  had 
prepared.  She  now  turned  aside,  and  for  the 
first  time  during  this  trying  scene,  her  strong 
mind  gave  way  beneath  the  storm  of  her  feel- 
ings. She  covered  her  head,  and  sobbed  as 
though  her  heart  were  breaking.  He  stood 
undecided,  and  struck  his  stick  against  the 
floor.  She  made  a  strong  effort,  turned  towards 
her  brother,  and  cutting  a  small  slice  from 
the  loaf,  she  made  the  sign  of  a  cross  on  it, 
then  kissed  it,  and  put  it  in  his  vest.  She 
then  grasped  his  hand,  and  looked  imploringly 
at  me.  I  understood  her,  and  went  out  to  look 
te  the  vehicle,  and  to  leave  the  brother  and 
sister  alone  to  their  bitter  parting.  She  still 
strove  against  her  weakness  before  the  stranger. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  came  out,  and  without 
saying  a  word  took  his  seat  beside  me  in  the 
car,  gathered  up  the  reins,  and  we  were  off. 
We  drove  on  for  about  an  hour  and  a  half, 
when  he  suddenly  halted  and  said — 

VOL.  I. 


"  Excuse  me,  sir,  I  will  not  detain  you,  but 
I  have  business  here,  hard  by." 

I  represented  to  him  the  risk  he  incurred, 
and  expressed  my  surprise  at  his  having  any 
business  that  could  hinder  him  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  under  such  circumstances.  It 
availed  not,  and  he  only  entreated  me  to  Wiit 
for  him, 

"  Only  ten  minutes,"  he  exclaimed  with  the 
deepest  emotion.  "  It  is  no  business — it  is 
but  a  house— a  look.  I  cannot  leave  the 
country  without  once  more" 

He  pointed  to  a  house  overshadowed  by 
trees,  about  a  hundred  paces  from  the  spot. 

"  Louise?"  I  asked. 

He  coloured,  and  nodded  assent,  and  then 
hurried  towards  the  dwelling. 

I  fastened  the  horse  to  a  tree,  and  followed 
him,  to  be  at  hand  in  case  of  trouble.  He 
stood  a  while  beneath  a  tree  that  was  growing 
out  of  the  hedge  which  surrounded  the  garden. 
The  window  of  a  projecting  angle  of  the  build- 
ing was  just  opposite,  and  doubtless  he  had 
good  reasons  for  choosing  his  post.  The  cur- 
tains were  drawn,  and  the  inmates  of  the 
house  seemed  buried  in  sleep.  The  distant 
village  dock  struck  three,  and  I  thought  it 
high  time  that  we  were  again  on  the  road. 
I  approached,  and  bade  him  be  comforted, 
and  take  courage.  His  expression  awed  me; 
it  was  rather  one  of  anger  and  passion  than  of 
sorrow,  with  the  same  stern  fixed  look  that  he 
had  in  common  with  his  sister. 

"One  moment  more!"  he  whispered  softly. 
"  She  must  know  that  I  have  been  here,  and 
then  she  will  see  how  to  settle  it  with  her 
conscience.  Yes;  if  she  should  learn  that  my 
corpse  was  found  here!" 

He  laughed  a  bitter  laugh  as  he  untied  his 
cravat,  and  was  about  to  fasten  it  to  a  branch 
which  overhung  the  window. 

"She  will  know  it  but  too  well,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

Just  at  this  moment  the  cry  of  an  infant 
was  heard  from  the  chamber.  It  had  a  won- 
derful effect  on  him,  and  changed  his  fiercer 
mood  into  one  of  complete  prostration. 

"She  is  a  mother!"  he  cried.  "I  did  not 
know  it ;  Loubette  should  not  have  concealed 
that  from  me.  It  is  all  over  now;  and  God 
forbid  that  I  should  bring  terror  to  a  mother! " 

He  let  go  the  bough,  which  swung  back 
against  the  window,  and  fastened  the  cravat 
round  his  neck,  and  in  a  few  seconds  waa 
seated  by  my  side,  lost  in  thought,  and 
rapidly  urging  forward  the  horse  on  the  road 
to  Marans. 

He  drew  up  at  the  bridge  of  Vix,  and  d* 
24 


370 


THE  SLEEP. 


clared  that  his  route  now  lay  in  a  different  di- 
rection. I  offered  him  the  charge  of  a  little 
farm  in  Touraine  if  he  would  let  me  know 
where  to  find  him.  He  was  evidently  grateful 
for  my  sympathy,  but  declined  the  offer, 
saying — 

"  It  can't  be;  I  must  live  as  the  rest  do.  To 
manage  a  farm  properly  I  must  have  a  wife, 
and  I  could  not  think  of  that.  Man  must 
labour  in  the  quietness  and  the  peace  of  his 
heart  ar-d  oi  his  life,  and  that  I  cannot  do. 
I  should  never  see  a  gendarme  without  think- 
ing that  he  was  seeking  me!" 

"You  are  dead  for  the  gendarmes,  Guillaume, 
and  for  all  the  world  except  Loubette  and  me," 
I  replied,  half-jestingly.  But  the  words  made 
a  painful  impression  on  him. 

"  It  were  perhaps  the  best  thing  that  could 
happen  for  me  if  it  were  true,"  he  rejoined 
gloomily.  But  recovering  himself  quickly, 
he  imparted  to  me  his  plan,  which  was  to  seek 
a  home  with  some  friends  in  the  Talmond 
country.  I  made  some  inquiries  as  to  his 
means  of  subsistence;  but  he  was  shy,  and 
broke  off  the  conversation  abruptly,  saying 
that  he  had  still  far  to  travel,  and  that  people 
were  coming  in  sight  along  the  road  from 
Marans.  He  was  right;  and  we  had  scarcely 
time  for  a  brief  farewell,  and  a  hearty  grasp  of 
each  other's  hand,  when  he  was  lost  in  the 
thicket,  and  I  saw  him  no  more.  But  among 
the  bodies  of  those  who  were  shot  by  the  gen- 
darmerie in  the  slight  rising  that  soon  after- 
wards took  place  in  La  Vendee,  on  the  appear- 
ance there  of  the  Duchess  de  Berri,  that  of 
Guillaume  Blaisot  was  recognized. 


SONG. 

Gather  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may, 

Old  time  is  still  a  flying ; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To  morrow  may  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he's  a  getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  you  may,  go  marry; 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  for  ever  tarry. 

Hb.fi  HICK. 


THE    SLEEP. 

[Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  born  in  London,  1800; 
died  in  Florence,  'Jyth  June,  18»;i.  She  was  equally 
distinguished  by  her  genius  and  hrr  scholarship.  At  the 
age  of  seventeen  she  published  her  E.-say  mi  Mind,  with 
other  poems ;  and  that  volume  was  followed  by  The 
8  raphim,  1838;  The  Romaunt  of  tht  Page,  1839;  The 
Di-ama  of  Exile ;  Isobefs  Child ;  Ca*a  Guidi  Windnvit, 
1851 ;  Aurora  Ltigh,  and  numerous  miscellaneous  poems. 
She  also  translated  into  English  the  Prometheus  BnunA 
of  jEschylus,  which  in  after  years  she  pronounced  an 
"early  failure."  Having  ccme  to  that  conclusion,  she 
produced  a  new  translation,  which  is  published  in  the 
collected  edition  of  her  works  (five  volumes,  Smith, 
Elder  &  Co.)  Leigh  Hunt  calls  her,  in  one  of  his  poems, 
"  The  sister  of  Tennyson ; "  another  writer  claims  her  as 
" Shakspeare's  daughter;"  and  all  critics,  whilst  ad- 
mitting with  regret  the  occasional  obscurity  of  her  lan- 
guage, agree  in  acknowledging  her  marvellous  poetic 
power.  Miss  Mitford's  tribute  to  her  friend  will 
interest  every  admirer  of  the  poet :  "  Such  is  the  influ- 
ence of  her  manners,  her  conversation,  her  temper,  her 
thousand  sweet  and  attaching  qualities,  that  they  who 
know  her  best  are  apt  to  lose  sight  altogether  of  her 
learning  and  of  her  genius,  and  to  think  of  her  only  as 
the  most  charming  person  they  have  ever  met."  In, 
1816  Miss  Barrett  was  married  to  Mr.  Robert  Browning. ] 

"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep"  (Psalm  cxxvii.  2). 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  into  souls  afar, 
Along  the  psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this — 
"He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep?" 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved, 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows?—- 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved? 

A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep, 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake: 

He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

"Sleep  soft,  beloved !"  we  sometimes  say, 
Who  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 
Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep t 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voicesl 
O  delved  gold,  the  waiters  heap ! 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall  I 


ALFRED  THE  TRUTH-TELLER. 


371 


God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  givetli  His  beloved,  sleep. 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap : 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man 
Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep; 
But  angels  say,  and  through  the  word 
I  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard— 
'He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 

Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 

That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 

Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 

Would  child-like  on  His  love  repose 

Who  givetli  His  beloved,  sleep. 

And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall! 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 


ALFRED  THE  TRUTH -TELLER. 

[Charlotte  Mary  Yonge,  born  1S23.  As  a  no- 
velist and  writer  for  the  young  slie  is  perhaps  the  most 
popular  of  living  writers  The  Heir  «f  Rtdclyffe  has 
passed  through  numerous  editions,  and  her  many  other 
works  are  only  second  to  it  in  general  esteem.  Miss 
Yonge  writes  simply  and  earnestly,  and  she  has  a  special 
gift  for  reproducing  the  most  interesting  passages  of 
history  with  a  vigour  and  spirit  which  gives  them  all 
the  attraction  of  novelty.  Her  Caiiieog  from  English 
History— from  which  we  take  the  following  narrative — 
is  an  example  of  this  power.  Her  works  are  published 
fcy  Macmillan  <fe  Co.,  London,  and  the  most  notable  of 
them,  besides  those  already  mentioned,  are — The  Caged 
Lion;  The  Chajilet  of  Pearls — a  story  of  the  Huguenot 
times;  The  Dais//  C/,ain  ;  Heartsease;  A  Book  of  Golden 
Deeds;  The  Daiivei-s  Palters,  &c.] 

It  seems  as  if  each  Christian  state  had  pos- 
sessed a  royal  ancestor,  for  whose  sake,  as  for 
that  of  David,  the  throne  was  established,  and 
his  seed  borne  with  and  made  to  prosper. 
Such  were  St.  Louis  in  France,  St.  Stephen  of 
Hungary,  Rodolph  of  Hapsburg  in  Germany, 
and  in  England  our  own  Alfred.  Of  these 
kings  the  wise  and  true  observer,  Schlegel, 
says,  "that  a  lively  sketch  of  such  men  and 
rulers,  who  acted  and  governed  well  and 
Ifreatly,  according  to  Christian  principles  and 


views,  would  furnish  a  far  more  complete  idea 
of  the  Christian  state  than  any  laboured  or 
artificial  development." 

How  beautiful,  that  men  have  so  lived  on 
this  earth  as  to  "prove  what  is  that  good  and 
perfect  will  of  God,"  better  than  any  fancied 
dreamland  or  system  that  our  imagination 
could  frame!  how  it  ahows  what  the  Holy 
Spirit,  working  through  frail  weak  men,  can 
effect  even  in  this  world,  and  what  encourage- 
ment to  us  to  work  on  cheerfully  and  do  our 
best  in  the  present  state  of  things  rather  than 
indulge  in  day-dreams  of  what  we  might  be  if 
all  around  were  different. 

Alfred  well  maintains,  even  a  thousand 
years  after  his  death,  his  right  to  his  old 
Saxon  title  of  England's  Darling;  for  hardly 
an  English  child  who  has  received  any  educa- 
tion does  not  delight  to  think  of  the  disguised 
king  in  the  swineherd's  cottage;  and  from  the 
first  moment  of  hearing  that  pretty  story  each 
subsequent  return  to  Alfred's  history  increases 
our  honour  and  love  for  him.  Even  men  who 
would  not  honour  him  for  his  goodness  have 
been  forced  to  admire  his  ability,  and  for  his 
victories  and  his  wisdom  have  given  him  the 
surname  of  their  worldly  heroes,  "the  Great," 
and  have  thus  caused  to  be  forgotten  his  more 
beautiful  names,  the  Truth-Teller,  England's 
Darling,  the  Shepherd  of  his  People. 

Jiecause  Solomon  chose  wisdom,  riches, 
honour,  long  life  were  added  unto  him;  Alfred 
sought  first  the  one  thing  needful,  and  received 
all  these  things,  excepting  long  life,  which  to 
a  Christian  was  not  the  same  boon  as  to  an 
Israelite  of  old. 

Alfred  was  the  fifth  son  of  King  Ethelwolf, 
who  was  the  first  to  make  the  payment  of 
tenths  to  the  clergy  a  part  of  the  law  of  the 
land.  He  was  born  at  Wantage,  in  Berkshire, 
where  great  pride  is  still  taken  in  him,  and 
where,  in  1848,  his  thousandth  birth-day  was 
celebrated  in  the  way  he  would  probably  have 
most  preferred,  by  services  of  thanksgiving; 
by  clearing  the  old  Saxon  white  horse  on  the 
chalk  down,  and  by  the  foundation  of  a 
grammar-school. 

Little  could  Alfred  have  guessed  when  he 
struggled  to  earn  the  precious  manuscript- 
book  how  easy  and  cheap  of  attainment  the 
instruction  would  be  which  cost  him  so  many 
efforts.  It  is  another  question  whether  all  we 
learn  or  seek  to  learn  is  what  Alfred  would 
have  chosen  and  have  valued;  and  certainly 
the  mere  acquiring  of  knowledge  will  not  make 
us  wiser  than  he  was. 

At  seven  years  old  Alfred  went  with  his 
father  on  pilgrimage  to  Rome,  where  it  i» 


ALFRED  THE  TRUTH-TELLER. 


recorded  that  he  was  anointed  by  the  pope. 
This  might  either  be  at  his  confirmation,  or 
his  father  might  have  designed  for  him  one  of 
the  divisions  of  England,  which  was  not  as  yet 
regarded  as  a  single  kingdom. 

It  was  shortly  after  his  return  that  the  inci- 
dent of  the  book  of  poetry  occurred,  and  occa- 
sioned him  to  learn  to  read.  It  seems  as  if  he 
might  have  been  more  inclined  to  study  by  the 
delicacy  of  his  health,  for  he  had  never  been 
strong  from  his  infancy,  and  often  was  quite 
disabled  by  illness.  When  he  was  about  fifteen 
or  sixteen  he,  however,  suddenly  recovered, 
and,  as  he  considered,  in  answer  to  his  prayers 
in  a  church  in  Cornwall,  where  he  had  en- 
treated that  if  chastisement  was  to  be  sent  to 
him  it  might  come  in  such  a  manner  as  might 
not  disable  him  from  actively  serving  his 
country. 

From  this  time  he  took  his  full  share  in  all 
the  active  and  manly  exercises  by  which  young 
men  were  trained  for  war.  Still  he  strove 
hard  for  all  the  learning  that  could  be  attained, 
and  deep  and  sacred  truths  were  impressed  on 
his  mind  by  St.  Swithun,  Bishop  of  Winchester, 
and  chancellor,  and  by  St.  Neot,  a  hermit  of 
Cornwall.  There  is  strong  reason  to  believe 
the  latter  was  his  elder  brother  Ethelstane, 
who,  after  governing  his  father's  kingdom  of 
Kent  for  some  years,  retired  from  the  world, 
and  spent  a  life  of  devotion.  The  sons  of 
Ethelwolf,  as  it  is  well  known,  each  reigned 
for  a  few  years,  and  then  died,  leaving  sons 
so  young  that  the  Saxon  laws  appointed  the 
grown-up  brother  to  succeed  in  their  stead. 

In  the  reign  of  his  last  brother,  Ethelred, 
Alfred  in  his  twentieth  year  was  married  to 
Elswitha,  the  daughter  of  Ethelred  Muckle  (or 
the  Great),  an  elderman  of  Mercia.  The  fes- 
tivities lasted  three  days;  but  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  the  great  banquets,  to  the  dismay  of  all 
the  guests,  the  bridegroom  suddenly  gave  a 
loud  cry  of  agony.  It  was  the  first  attack  of 
a  malady,  the  cause  of  which  was  never  dis- 
covered, and  from  which  he  suffered  all  the 
rest  of  his  life,  never  passing  a  day  without 
fits  of  pain,  often  so  violent  that  he  could 
hardly  enjoy  the  intervals  of  repose.  He  en- 
dured it  meekly,  looking  on  it  as  an  answer 
to  his  prayer,  since  it  did  not  render  him 
incapable  of  exertion  ;  and  such  was  his  self- 
command,  that  he  never  seems  again  to  have 
betrayed  how  much  he  underwent.  And  how 
little  he  indulged  or  spared  himself  on  this 
account  is  shown  by  his  allotting  himself,  in  his 
division  of  the  day,  only  eight  hours  altogether 
for  repose,  recreation,  and  for  meals.  His  ac- 
tivity and  high  spirit  were  not  impaired;  and 


when  his  brother  Ethelred  mustered  his  forces 
to  repel  the  Danes,  after  their  conquest  of  East 
Anglia,  Alfred  joined  him,  and  fought  by  his 
side  in  the  battle  of  Reading.  At  Ashdown 
Alfred  committed  one  of  the  lew  faulty  actions 
which  show  how  much  he  must  have  had  to 
conquer  in  himself.  He  saw  the  Danes  mar- 
shalled on  the  opposite  hill,  and  rushing  into 
the  tent,  where  his  brother  was  hearing  the 
mass  (or  communion  service),  interrupted  the 
priest  by  calling  him  to  the  battle.  Ethelred 
knelt  on,  without  moving,  and  desired  the 
priest  to  proceed,  refusing  to  go  forth  till  he 
had  prayed  the  God  of  hosts  to  bless  his  en- 
deavours. Angry  and  impatient,  Alfred  hur- 
ried away,  hastened  to  his  own  division  of  the 
army,  and  at  their  head  fiercely  attacked  the 
enemy;  but  he  was  surrounded,  his  men  slain 
on  all  sides,  and  himself  in  extreme  danger, 
when  Ethelred,  with  the  rest  of  the  forces, 
made  in  to  his  rescue,  and  gained  the  battle. 
Ethelred  received  a  wound,  of  which  he  died 
after  lingering  a  few  weeks,  and  Alfred,  bit- 
terly repenting  of  his  faithless  impatience, 
found  himself  at  twenty-two  the  king  of  a 
realm  desolated  by  a  foreign  enemy,  and 
shaken  by  the  disaffection  of  the  rude,  igno- 
rant, turbulent  natives. 

Alfred  was  not  of  a  temper  to  conciliate 
them.  He  was  weakly  and  delicate,  and  they 
were  likely  to  despise  him  for  his  want  of  per- 
sonal strength,  as  well  as  for  the  love  of  learn- 
ing, which  they  must  have  thought  fitter  for  a 
clerk  than  a  king.  He  was  more  refined  than 
they,  disliking  the  riotous  festivities  in  which 
alone  they  took  pleasure;  and  young  as  he  was, 
and  conscious  of  his  own  superiority,  he  openly 
showed  his  contempt  and  disgust.  He  was  also 
thought  proud  and  harsh;  his  administration 
of  justice,  always  strict,  was  at  this  early 
period  so  severe  as  to  be  almost  cruel;  and  he 
was  so  taken  up  with  his  own  pursuits  as  to  be 
difficult  of  access,  so  that  the  poor  were  unable 
to  complain  to  him  of  their  grievances. 

His  brother,  St.  Neot,  came  from  his  her- 
mitage in  Cornwall  to  warn  him  of  the  perils 
of  the  reserve  and  haughtiness  with  which  he 
treated  his  people.  He  did  not  speak  of  its 
inexpediency  and  of  the  danger  of  making 
himself  unpopular,  but  he  rebuked  him  for 
the  sin  of  pride,  and  told  him  that  punish- 
ment would  surely  follow. 

Punishment  did  follow,  as  the  hermit  had 
foretold,  and  after  seven  years  of  constant  war- 
fare, the  Saxons,  discouraged  and  disaffected, 
fell  away  from  him,  and  he  became  a  homeless 
wanderer.  It  was  at  this  time  that  his  best- 
known  adventures  took  place,  his  abode  in  the 


ALFRED   THE   TRUTH-TELLEK. 


373 


swineherd's  cottage,  and  his  patient  endurance 
of  his  hostess'  violence  of  temper.  His  bro- 
ther's rebuke  must  have  often  recurred  to  the 
mind  of  the  disguised  king,  thus  trained  in 
humility  and  lowliness,  who,  after  showing 
hastiness  and  contempt  for  the  nobles  of  his 
court,  was  obliged  to  become  the  companion 
of  an  ignorant  serf,  and  submit  to  the  insolence 
of  a  peasant  woman.  Few  have  so  profited 
by  the  lessons  of  adversity,  and  regarded  them 
as  loving  correction.  How  wonderful  the  guest 
must  have  appeared  to  his  host,  Dunulf,  the 
swineherd,  who,  as  is  proved  by  his  subsequent 
history,  was  a  man  untaught  indeed,  but  of 
great  piety  and  natural  ability,  and  able  to 
appreciate  the  words  which  fell  from  the  lips 
of  the  stranger,  not  only  his  king,  but  the 
wisest  man  then  living!  How  much  must  he 
have  learned  of  deep  and  sacred  things  in  the 
long  evenings  of  that  winter  spent  in  the  low 
hut  of  the  marshy  isle  of  Athelney. 

Then  followed  the  spring,  when  the  sight  of 
gome  peasants  flying  before  the  Danes  caused 
the  king  to  seize  his  weapons,  and  put  himself 
at  the  head  of  the  fugitives,  who,  encouraged 
by  his  presence,  turned  and  drove  back  the 
enemy  beyond  the  rivers  Thone  and  Parret, 
which,  with  the  surrounding  morasses,  pro- 
tected the  so-called  island.  There  he  raised  a 
little  fort,  where  he  was  joined  by  his  wife  and 
children,  together  with  a  few  faithful  warriors, 
and  there  it  was  that  in  the  midst  of  their 
poverty  he  and  Elswitha  gave  half  their  last 
loaf  to  the  beggar.  In  this  place  was  found  a 
golden  ornament,  bearing  the  name  of  Alfred, 
which  perhaps  was  taken  off  when  he  assumed 
this  disguise. 

Seven  months  had  passed  in  this  manner, 
while  more  and  more  the  Saxons  were  rallying 
round  him  in  his  retreat,  and  at  length  the 
encouraging  tidings  came  that  Cynwith,  Elder- 
man  of  Devon,  had,  in  defending  his  castle, 
routed  a  great  body  of  Danes,  and  taken  the 
famous  Raven  standard.  On  this  Alfred  re- 
solved to  show  himself  openly,  and  when  he 
had,  in  his  minstrel  disguise,  reconnoitred  the 
camp  of  Guthrum,  he  sent  forth  a  summons  to 
all  his  West  Saxon  subjects  to  come  round  him 
once  more.  The  red  dragon  which  marked 
the  presence  of  the  King  of  Wessex  was  again 
uplifted  on  the  high  green  hill  of  Stourhead, 
in  Wiltshire,  commanding  no  less  than  three 
counties,  and  where  a  tower  still  marks  the 
spot  where  the  standard  was  planted,  and 
where  there  gathered  round  it  many  an  honest 
Saxon  heart,  prepared  to  make  up  by  courage 
and  firmness  for  their  late  desertion  and  faint- 
ness  of  spirit? 


The  victory  of  Ethandune  was  gained,  and 
was  made  more  glorious  by  Alfred's  treatment 
of  the  captive  Guthrum,  whom  he  brought  to 
embrace  the  Christian  religion,  and  then  granted 
him  the  kingdom  of  East  Anglia.  This  was 
the  turning-point;  and  though  other  bodies  of 
Danes  under  Hasting  and  other  chieftains 
made  one  or  two  descents  on  the  coast,  they 
were  always  speedily  defeated  and  driven  back. 
Alfred  was  the  first  English  prince  who  built 
ships,  by  which  means  he  kept  back  many  of 
the  attempted  incursions  of  the  enemy;  and 
though  always  obliged  to  be  on  his  guard,  and 
seldom  passing  a  year  without  a  sudden  sum- 
mons to  the  coast,  the  remainder  of  his  reign 
was  spent  in  comparative  peace  and  prosperity. 

It  is  strange  to  observe  how  many  of  our 
best  institutions  are  ascribed  to  King  Alfred. 
Our  navy,  the  trial  by  jury,  the  universities  of 
Oxford  and  Cambridge,  the  division  of  the 
kingdom  into  counties,  hundreds,  and  tith- 
ings,  the  study  of  the  English  as  a  language, 
all  on  more  or  less  authority  are  dated  from 
his  time,  and  are  believed  to  have  been  devised 
by  his  wisdom.  He  was  one  of  the  strictest 
and  most  just  of  judges,  the  wisest  of  states- 
men, the  most  earnest  of  scholars,  the  most 
active  of  warriors,  the  most  devout  of  Chris- 
tians, performing  each  duty  so  thoroughly, 
that  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  his  whole  life, 
and  that  a  long  one,  was  not  devoted  to  that 
one  singly;  instead  of  which  all  these  together 
were  effected  by  one  man,  in  the  course  of  a 
life  of  but  fifty-two  years,  and  constantly  suf- 
fering from  ill  health. 

His  apportionment  of  his  time  is  well  known, 
and  only  occasions  more  wonder  at  all  he  suc- 
ceeded in  doing.  He  is  said  to  have  been  the 
inventor  of  the  candles  marked  by  coloured 
rings,  by  which  the  Saxons  measured  their 
time;  and  though  it  was  his  wonderful  talent 
that  enabled  him  to  accomplish  so  much,  yet 
this  strict  regard  to  the  employment  of  time 
as  a  duty  is  one  of  the  great  lessons  in  his  life. 

He  found  time,  after  the  great  defeat  of  the 
Danes,  for  his  long-cherished  desire  of  learning 
Latin.  Asser,  a  learned  Welsh  monk,  and  a 
Scot  named  Erigena,  both  of  whom  he  invited 
to  his  court,  and  Plegmund,  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  were  his  chief  instructors;  and 
Plegmund  was  even  able  to  teach  him  a  little 
Greek.  In  fact,  the  palace  seems  to  have  been 
a  sort  of  college  for  good  and  holy  teaching, 
where  the  king  was  at  once  the  first  scholar 
and  the  best  master.  There  were  educated 
his  three  sons — the  promising  and  short-lived 
Etheling,  Edmund,  with  Edward  and  Ethel- 
wold,  the  youngest  of  whom  was  afterward* 


374 


ALFRED  THE  TRUTH-TELLER. 


one  of  the  first  Oxford  students;  his  daughters, 
of  whom  Ethelfled,  the  eldest,  was  thought  the 
most  like  her  father  of  all  his  children;  and 
Ethelstan,  Prince  Edward's  little  son.  There, 
too,  studied  the  young  thanes  and  sons  of 
eldermen,  whom  Alfred  wished  to  train  in  good 
learning,  and  even  sundry  of  their  fathers,  gray 
old  warriors,  who  had  once  laughed  at  the 
king's  learning,  but  were  now  obliged  to  sub- 
mit, at  his  especial  desire,  to  hear  good  books 
read  to  them  if  they  would  not,  or  could  not, 
learn  to  read  themselves.  T'here,  too,  was 
brought  up  a  foundling,  whom,  according  to 
the  story,  the  king  had  been  caused  to  adopt 
by  a  strange  adventure.  While  hunting  near 
some  wild  rocks  he  heard  the  cry  of  a  child, 
and  causing  search  to  be  made,  there  was  dis- 
covered in  an  eyrie,  amongst  the  young  eaglets, 
a  living  infant  of  about  a  year  old,  which  the 
old  birds  must  have  carried  thither  to  prey 
upon.  Its  scarlet  dress  and  gold  collar  proved 
the  little  boy  to  be  of  noble  birth,  but  his 
parents  were  never  discovered.  The  name  of 
Nestingum  was  given  to  him ;  he  was  brought 
up  in  King  Alfred's  household,  and  became  an 
earl,  high  in  the  king's  favour.  There,  too, 
studied  the  king's  old  friend  the  swineherd, 
Dunulf,  whom  he  had  brought  from  Athelney, 
and  so  instructed,  that  he  became  noted  for 
his  learning  as  well  as  his  goodness,  and  was 
in  time  appointed  Bishop  of  Winchester. 
Asser  declares  that  the  king  took  great  plea- 
sure in  relating  the  incidents  of  his  wandering 
life. 

The  books  used  in  this  palace-school  were 
chiefly  Alfred's  own  providing;  for  excepting 
Bishop  Aldhelm's  translation  of  the  Psalms, 
there  was  scarcely  one  book  in  the  Saxon 
tongue  until  Alfred  translated  the  venerable 
Bede's  history,  the  philosophy  of  Boethius,  the 
pastoral  letter  of  St.  Gregory  the  Great,  the 
history  of  Orosius,  to  which  he  added  a  geo- 
graphy of  his  own.  He  also  wrote  a  book  of 
fables,  and  another  of  falconry,  with  several 
poems;  and  he  always  carried  with  him  in  his 
bosom  a  hand-book,  in  which  he  wrote  down 
any  extract  or  meditation  that  struck  him. 
He  had  even  begun  a  version  of  the  Bible,  but 
he  did  not  live  to  complete  it. 

The  palace-school  seems  to  have  been  the 
only  safe  place  for  the  masters,  for  Erigena, 
while  attempting  to  bring  a  monastery  into 
order,  was  killed  by  his  unruly  scholars  with 
the  points  of  their  iron  pens. 

Much  was  also  done  by  Alfred  to  improve 
the  condition  of  the  church,  which  had  fallen 
into  a  state  of  great  ignorance  and  laxity  of 
discipline  during  the  Danish  invasions.  He 


kept  up  a  close  intercourse  with  Eome,  wher» 
he  sent  gifts  to  the  Saxon  school  and  house  for 
pilgrims,  founded  by  King  Ina,  though  at  the 
same  time  he  resisted  the  pretensions,  and 
showed  his  disapprobation  of  the  conduct  of 
some  of  the  wicked  popes  at  that  time  reign- 
ing; for  which  reason,  as  it  is  believed,  it  waa 
that  the  title  of  Saint  was  not  given  to  him. 
He  likewise  sent  letters  and  presents  to  the 
Patriarch  of  Jerusalem,  and  to  the  Christians 
of  St.  Thomas,  in  India,  who  sent  him  in  re- 
turn gifts  of  precious  stones  and  spices.  Truly 
Alfred  did  not  forget  that  he  was  a  member  of 
the  Holy  Catholic  Church. 

It  is  as  impossible  to  display  all  the  varied 
shades  and  beauties  of  Alfred's  mind  as  to  cut 
a  cameo  into  perfect  resemblance  of  the  original 
gem.  One  word  more  of  the  disposal  of  his 
money,  which  was,  like  his  time,  divided  into 
two  portions,  half  for  the  immediate  service  of 
God,  the  other  for  His  service  likewise,  through 
that  of  his  neighbour;  and  when  we  look  at 
the  scanty  possessions  of  the  kings  of  Wessex, 
and  at  the  great  works  which  he  effected  with 
it,  it  shows  most  clearly  and  fully  how  bless- 
ings and  increase  follow  wealth  bestowed  in 
such  a  manner  with  so  free  a  hand,  and  so  en- 
tirely for  God's  glory. 

Alfred  died  in  the  year  901,  and  was  buried 
at  Hyde  Abbey,  at  Winchester,  which  he  had 
himself  founded  to  be  the  burial-place  of  his 
famih'.  After  the  dissolution  of  the  monas- 
tery Hyde  was  pulled  down  and  desecrated, 
the  bones  of  the  princes  there  buried  were  col- 
lected together  and  placed  in  chests,  which  at 
present  stand  on  the  top  of  the  side-screens  of 
the  choir  of  Winchester  Cathedral,  the  church 
of  Alfred's  tutor,  St.  Swithun.  About  seventy 
years  ago,  when  a  bridewell  was  built  on  the 
site  of  Hyde  Abbey,  a  stone  coffin  was  found, 
but  not  exciting  much  interest  at  the  time,  it 
was  soon  lost  or  destroyed,  and  there  is  no 
especial  reason  to  think  it  was  that  of  Alfred. 

The  following  verses,  embodying  some  of 
Alfred's  own  poetry,  are  taken  from  Lecture* 
on  English  Histo)~y : — 

"  To  Sifford  came  many  thanes. 

For  the  king  a  court  did  call ; 
And  bishops  and  knights,  with  their  noble  trains. 
Assembled  one  and  all. 

"Then  Alfred,  to  England  dear, 
I  >id  these  holy  proverbs  say, 
The  man  who  had  never  a  thought  of  fear, 
Though  he  ieared  the  Lord  alway. 

"  '  Would  yon  love  your  Lord  and  Head, 

He  would  teach  you  all  His  will, 
He  doth  in  honour  this  wide  earth  tread. 
\Yhu  in  liiiu  is  living  still. 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 


375 


' '  Long  for  Him.     O  my  friend, 

Aliklly  I  warn  you  here 
To  make  His  glory  your  chiefest  end, 
And  never  forsake  His  fear ! 

' '  Mildly  I  warn  you  now, 

Seek  Him  in  everything; 

The  crown  sits  not  well  on  that  monarch's  brow 
Who  owns  not  a  higher  King. 

' '  He  is  God  and  man  also ; 

Good,  the  highest  gc  od  above; 

Bliss  above  blessedness  he  shall  know 

Who  the  Lord  of  Life  doth  love. 

' '  He  doth  all  orders  sway, 

And  the  king  by  Him  must  reign, 

The  priest  bear  rule  b.y  His  perfect  way, 

And  wisely  the  knight  and  thane.' 


'  To  Sifford  came  many  thanes. 

Where  the  king  his  wittiin  met; 
And  bishops  and  knights,  with  their  warlike  train*. 
Were  in  solemn  conclave  i*)tt 

'  Then  Alfred,  to  England  dear, 

Did  his  parting  b.essing  give, 
His  brow  was  calm,  and  his  eye  was  clear 
Though  he  looked  not  long  to  live. 

'  For  his  eye  afar  did  rest 

Where  his  soul  is  resting  now, 
And  holy  faith  was  the  crown  that  prest 
That  steadfast  monarch's  brow. 

'  He  was  England's  noblest  son, 

He  is  England  s  comfort  styled ; 
O  well  hath  King  Alfred  this  title  won 
From  each  loyal  English  child." 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 


[Samuel  Ferguson,  LL.D.,  Q.C.,  born  in  Belfast, 
1810.  A  distinguished  member  of  the  Irish  bar.  He 
has  written  a  number  of  ballads  which  have  secured  for 
him  a  permanent  place  amongst  the  poets  of  his  native 
country.  Mr.  Gavaii  Duffy,  in  his  introduction  to  The 
Jjatlad  Pottry  of  Ireland — in  which  collection  ten,  of 


Mr.  Ferguson's  poems  appear— says  his  productions  ar» 
'•fired  with  a  living  and  local  interest.  '  And  "they 
are  coloured  with  scenery  and  costume,  and  ventilated 
with  the  free  air  of  the  country.  In  this  respect  they 
are  of  a  class  with  the  old  English  and  Scotch  bal- 
lads."] 


Come  see  the  Dolphin's  Anchor  forged;  'tis  at  a  white  heat  now: 
The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased ;  though  on  the  forge's  brow, 
The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through  the  sable  mound ; 
And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  ranking  round, 
All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  theif  broad  hands  only  bare ; 
Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work  the  windlass  there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle  chains,  the  black  mound  heaves  below; 

And  red  and  deep,  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at  every  throe: 

It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright — O,  Vulcan,  what  a  glow ! 

'Tis  blinding  white,  'tis  blasting  bright;  the  high  sun  shines  not  so! 

The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery  fearful  show ; 

The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the  ruddy  lurid  row 

Of  smiths,  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  before  the  foe ; 

As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame,  the  sailing  monster,  slow 

Sinks  on  the  anvil— all  about,  the  faces  fiery  grow — 

"Hurrah  !"  they  shout,  "leap  out,  leap  out ;"  bang,  bang,  the  sledges  go; 

Hurrah  !  the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing  high  and  low; 

A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squashing  blow; 

The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail ;  the  rattling  cinders  strow 

The  ground  around;  at  every  bound  the  sweltering  fountains  flow; 

And  thick  and  loud,  the  swinking  crowd,  at  every  stroke,  pant  "ho!" 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters ;  leap  out  and  lay  on  load ! 

Let's  forge  a  goodly  Anchor;  a  bower  thick  and  broad: 

For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow,  I  bode.— 

I  see  the  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a  perilous  road, 

The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee ;  the  roll  of  ocean  pour'd 

From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea;  the  mainmast  by  the  board: 

The  bulwarks  down  ;  the  rudder  gone ;  the  boats  stove  at  the  chains  ; 

But  courage  yet,  brave  mariners— the  Bower  still  remains, 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns  save  when  ye  pitch  sky  biglL, 
Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said,  "Fear  nothing — here  am  I!" 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order;  let  foot  and  hand  keep  time, 
Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  thau  any  steeple's  chime; 
But  while  ye  swing  your  sledges,  sing ;  and  let  the  burden  be 
The  Anchor  is  the  Anvil  King,  and  royal  craftsmen  we. 

Strike  in,  strike  in — the  sparks  begin  to  dull  their  rustling  red: 

Our  hammeis  ring  with  sharper  diu,  our  work  will  soon  be  sped; 

Our  Anchor  soon  must  change  its  bed  of  fiery  rich  array, 

For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an  oozy  couch  of  clay; 

Our  Anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  meriy  craftsmen  here, 

For  the  Yeo-heave-o',  and  the  Heave-away,  and  the  sighing  seaman's  cheer  ; 

"When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go,  far,  far  from  love  and  home  ; 

And  sobbing  sweathearts,  in  a  row,  wail  o'er  the  ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  darkens  do~wn  at  last; 

A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,  as  e'er  from  cat  was  cast.  — 

O  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life  like  me, 

What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the  deep  green  seal 

O  deep-sea  diver,  who  might  then  behold  such  sights  as  thou? 

The  hoary  monster's  palaces !  methinks  what  joy  'twere  now 

To  go  plumb  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly  of  the  whales. 

And  feel  the  churn'd  sea  round  me  boil  beneath  their  scourging  tails! 

Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the  fierce  sea  unicorn, 

And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back,  for  all  his  ivory  horn; 

To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony  blade  forlorn ; 

And  for  the  ghastly-gnnning  shark  to  laugh  his  jaws  to  scorn ; 

To  leap  down  on  the  kraken's  back,  where  'mid  Norwegian  isles 

He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shallow'd  miles; 

Till  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  he  rolls ; 

Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffeting  the  far  astonished  shoals 

Of  his  back-browsing  ocean-calves;  or,  haply  in  a  cove, 

Shell-strown,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Undine's  love, 

To  find  the  long-hair'd  mermaidens ;  or,  hard  by  icy  lands, 

To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent,  upon  cerulean  sands. 

O  broad-armed  Fisher  of  the  deep,  whose  sports  can  equal  thine? 
The  Dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons,  that  tugs  thy  cable  line ; 
And  night  by  night  'tis  thy  delight,  thy  glory  day  by  day, 
Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white,  the  giant  game  to  play — 
But  shamer  of  our  little  sports !  forgive  the  name  I  gave — 
A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy — thine  office  is  to  save. 

O  lodger  in  the  sea-king's  halls,  couldst  thou  but  understand 
Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side,  or  who  that  dripping  band, 
Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that  round  about  thee  bend, 
With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream  blessing  their  ancient  friend — 
Oh,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  with  larger  steps  round  thee; 
Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride ;  thou'dst  leap  within  the  sea ! 

Give  honour  to  their  memories  who  left  the  pleasant  strand, 
To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of  Fatherland— 
Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy  churchyard  grave^ 
So  freely,  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the  tossing  wave — 
Oh,  though  our  Anchor  may  not  be  all  I  have  fondly  sung, 
Honour  him  for  their  memory,  whose  bones  he  goes  among  1 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


377 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

By  far  the  most  considerable  change  which 
has  taken  place  in  the  world  of  letters  in 
our  days  is  that  by  which  the  wits  of  Queen 
Anne's  time  have  been  gradually  brought 
down  from  the  supremacy  which  they  had 
enjoyed  without  competition  for  the  best  part 
of  a  century.  When  we  were  at  our  studies 
we  can  perfectly  remember  that  every  young 
man  was  set  to  read  Pope,  Swift,  and  Ad- 
dison  as  regularly  as  Virgil,  Cicero,  and 
Horace.  All  who  had  any  tincture  of  letters 
were  familiar  with  their  writings  and  their 
history:  allusions  to  them  abounded  in  all 
popular  discourses  and  all  ambitious  conversa- 
tion; and  they  and  their  contemporaries  were 
universally  acknowledged  as  our  great  models 
of  excellence,  and  placed  without  challenge 
at  the  head  of  our  national  literature.  New 
books,  even  when  allowed  to  have  merit,  were 
never  thought  of  as  fit  to  be  placed  in  the  same 
class,  but  were  generally  read  and  forgotten, 
and  passed  away  like  the  transitory  meteors  of 
a  lower  sky;  while  they  remained  in  their 
brightness,  and  were  supposed  to  shine  with  a 
fixed  and  unalterable  glory. 

All  this,  however,  we  take  it,  is  now  pretty 
well  altered;  and  in  so  far  as  persons  of  our 
antiquity  can  judge  of  the  training  and  habits 
of  the  rising  generation,  those  celebrated 
writers  no  longer  form  the  manual  of  our 
studious  youth,  or  enter  necessarily  into  the 
institution  of  a  liberal  education.  Their 
names,  indeed,  are  still  familiar  to  our  ears; 
but  their  writings  no  lon'ger  solicit  our  ha- 
bitual notice,  and  their  subjects  begin  already 
to  fade  from  our  recollection.  Their  high 
privileges  and  proud  distinctions,  at  any  rate, 
have  evidently  passed  into  other  hands.  It  is 
no  longer  to  them  that  the  ambitious  look  up 
with  envy,  or  the  humble  with  admiration; 
nor  is  it  in  their  pages  that  the  pretenders  to 
wit  and  eloquence  now  search  for  allusions 
that  are  sure  to  captivate,  and  illustrations 
that  cannot  be  mistaken.  In  this  decay  of 
their  reputation  they  have  few  advocates  and 
no  imitators.  And  from  a  comparison  of  many 
observations,  it  seems  to  be  clearly  ascertained 
that  they  are  declined  considerably  from  "the 
high  meridian  of  their  glory,"  and  may  fairly 
be  apprehended  to  be  "hastening  to  their 
Betting."  Neither  is  it  time  alone  that 
has  wrought  this  obscuration ;  for  the  fame 
of  Shakspeare  still  shines  in  undecaying 
brightness,  and  that  of  Bacon  has  been 


steadily  advancing  and  gathering  new  honours 
during  the  whole  period  which  has  witnessed 
the  rise  and  decline  of  his  less  vigorous  succes- 
sors. 

There  are  but  two  possible  solutions  for 
phenomena  of  this  sort.  Our  taste  has  either 
degenerated,  or  its  old  models  have  been  fairly 
surpassed;  and  we  have  ceased  to  admire  the 
writers  of  the  last  century,  only  because  they 
are  too  good  for  us,  or  because  they  are  not 
good  enough.  Now,  we  confess  we  are  no 
believers  in  the  absolute  and  permanent  cor- 
ruption of  national  taste;  on  the  contrary,  we 
think  that  it  is,  of  all  faculties,  that  which  is 
most  sure  to  advance  and  improve  with  time 
and  experience;  and  that,  with  the  exception 
of  those  great  physical  or  political  disasters 
which  have  given  a  check  to  civilization  itself, 
there  has  always  been  a  sensible  progress  in 
this  particular,  and  that  the  general  taste  of 
every  successive  generation  is  better  than  that 
of  its  predecessors.  There  are  little  capricious 
fluctuations,  no  doubt,  and  fits  of  foolish  ad- 
miration or  fastidiousness,  which  cannot  be  so 
easily  accounted  for.  But  the  great  move- 
ments are  all  progressive;  and  though  the 
progress  consists  at  one  time  in  withholding 
toleration  from  gross  faults,  and  at  "another  in 
giving  their  high  prerogative  to  great  beauties, 
this  alternation  has  no  tendenc)'  to  obstruct 
the  general  advance,  but,  on  the  contrary,  is 
the  best  and  the  safest  course  in  which  it  can 
be  conducted. 

We  are  of  opinion,  then,  that  the  writers 
who  adorned  the  beginning  of  the  last  century 
have  been  eclipsed  by  those  of  our  own  time, 
and  that  they  have  no  chance  of  ever  regaining 
the  supremacy  in  which  they  have  thus  been 
supplanted.  There  is  not,  however,  in  our 
judgment,  anything  very  stupendous  in  this 
triumph  of  our  contemporaries;  and  the  greater 
wonder  with  us  is  that  it  was  so  long  delayed, 
and  left  for  them  to  achieve.  For  the  truth 
is,  that  the  writers  of  the  former  age  had  not 
a  great  deal  more  than  their  judgment  and 
industry  to  stand  on,  and  were  always  much 
more  remarkable  for  the  fewness  of  their  faults 
than  the  greatness  of  their  beauties.  Their 
laurels  were  won  much  more  by  good  conduct 
and  discipline  than  by  enterprising  boldness 
or  native  force;  nor  can  it  be  regarded  as  any 
very  great  merit  in  those  who  had  so  little  of 
the  inspiration  of  genius  to  have  steered  clear 
of  the  dangers  to  which  that  inspiration  is 
liable.  Speaking  generally  of  that  generation 
of  authors,  it  may  be  said  that,  as  poets,  they 
had  no  force  or  greatness  of  fancy — no  pathos, 
and  no  enthusiasm, — and,  as  philosophers,  no 


373 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


comprehensiveness,  depth,  or  orginality.  They 
are  sagacious,  no- doubt — neat,  clear,  and  rea- 
sonable; but  for  the  most  part  cold,  timid, 
and  superficial.  They  never  meddle  with  the 
great  scenes  of  nature  or  the  great  passions  of 
man,  but  content  themselves  with  just  and 
sarcastic  representations  of  city  life,  and  of  the 
paltry  passions  and  meaner  vices  that  are  bred 
in  that  lower  element.  Their  chief  care  is  to 
avoid  being  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  witty, 
and  above  all  to  eschew  the  ridicule  of  exces- 
sive sensibility  or  enthusiasm — to  be  witty  and 
rational  themselves  with  a  good  grace,  and  to 
give  thei*  countenance  to  no  wisdom  and  no 
morality  which  passes  the  standards  that  are 
current  in  good  company.  Their  inspiration, 
accordingly,  is  little  more  than  a  sprightly  sort 
of  good  sense;  and  they  have  scarcely  any  in- 
vention but  what  is  subservient  to  the  purposes 
of  derision  and  satire.  Little  gleams  of  plea- 
santry and  sparkles  of  wit  glitter  through  their 
compositions,  but  no  glow  of  feeling — no  blaze 
of  imagination,  no  flashes  of  genius — ever 
irradiate  their  substance.  They  never  pass 
beyond  "the  visible  diurnal  sphere,"  or  deal 
in  anything  that  can  either  lift  us  above  our 
vulgar  nature  or  ennoble  its  reality.  With 
these  accomplishments  they  may  pass  well 
enough  for  sensible  and  polite  writers,  but 
scarcely  for  men  of  genius;  and  it  is  certainly 
far  more  surprising  that  persons  of  this  de- 
scription should  have  maintained  themselves 
for  near  a  century  at  the  head  of  the  literature 
of  a  country  that  had  previously  produced  a 
Shakspeare,  a  Bacon,  and  a  Taylor,  than  that 
towards  the  end  of  that  long  period  doubts 
should  have  arisen  as  to  the  legitimacy  of  the 
title  by  which  they  laid  claim  to  that  high 
station.  Both  parts  of  the  phenomenon,  how- 
ever, we  dare  say,  had  causes  which  better  ex- 
pounders might  explain  to  the  satisfaction  of 
all  the  world.  We  see  them  but  imperfectly, 
and  have  room  only  for  an  imperfect  sketch  of 
what  we  see. 

Our  first  literature  consisted  of  saintly  le- 
gends and  romances  of  chivalry,  though  Chaucer 
gave  it  a  more  national  and  popular  character 
by  his  original  descriptions  of  external  nature,  j 
and  the  familiarity  and  gaiety  of  his  social 
humour,  la  the  time  of  Elizabeth  it  received 
a  copious  infusion  of  classical  images  and 
ideas,  but  it  was  still  intrinsically  romantic, 
serious,  and  even  somewhat  lofty  and  enthusi- 
astic. Authors  were  then  so  few  in  number 
that  they  were  looked  upon  with  a  sort  of 
veneration,  and  considered  as  a  kind  of  in- 
spired persons, — at  least  they  were  not  yet  so 
numerous  as  to  be  obliged  to  abuse  each  other 


in  order  to  obtain  a  share  of  distinction  for 
themselves;  and  they  neither  affected  a  tone 
of  derision  in  their  writings,  nor  wrote  in  fear 
of  derision  from  others.  They  were  filled  with 
their  subjects,  and  dealt  with  them  fearlessly 
in  their  own  way;  and  the  stamp  of  originality, 
force,  and  freedom  is  consequently  upon  almost 
all  their  productions.  In  the  reign  of  James 
I.  our  literature,  with  some  few  exceptions, 
touching  rather  the  form  than  the  substance 
of  its  merits,  appears  to  us  to,  have  reached 
the  greatest  perfection  to  which  it  has  yet 
attained,  though  it  would  probably  have  ad- 
vanced still  farther  in  the  succeeding  reign 
had  not  the  great  national  dissensions  which 
then  arose  turned  the  talent  and  energy  of  the 
people  into  other  channels — first  to  the  asser- 
tion of  their  civil  rights,  and  afterwards  to  the 
discussion  of  their  religious  interests.  The 
graces  of  literature  suffered  of  course  in  those 
fierce  contentions,  and  a  deeper  shade  of  aus- 
terity was  thrown  upon  the  intellectual  chro- 
nicler of  the  nation.  Her  genius,  however, 
though  less  captivating  and  adorned  than  in 
the  happier  days  which  preceded,  was  still 
active,  fruitful,  and  commanding;  and  the 
period  of  the  Civil  wars,  besides  the  mighty 
minds  that  guided  the  public  councils  and 
were  absorbed  in  public  cares,  produced  the 
giant  powers  of  Taylor,  and  Hobbes,  and  Bar- 
row; the  muse  of  Milton,  the  learning  of  Coke, 
and  the  ingenuity  of  Cowley. 

The  Restoration  introduced  a  French  court 
under  circumstances  more  favourable  for  the 
effectual  exercise  of  court  influence  than  ever 
before  existed  in  England,  but  this  of  itself 
would  not  have  been  sufficient  to  account  for 
the  sudden  change  in  our  literature  which 
ensued.  It  was  seconded  by  causes  of  a  more 
general  operation.  The  Restoration  was  un- 
doubtedly a  popular  act;  and  indefensible  as 
the  conduct  of  the  army  and  the  civil  leaders 
was  on  that  occasion,  there  can  be  no  question 
that  the  severities  of  Cromwell  and  the  ex- 
travagance of  the  sectaries  had  made  repub- 
lican professions  hateful,  and  religious  ardour 
ridiculous,  in  the  eyes  of  the  people  at  large. 
All  the  eminent  writers  of  the  preceding  period, 
however,  had  inclined  to  the  party  that  was 
now  overthrown;  and  their  writings  had  not 
merely  been  accommodated  to  the  character  of 
the  government  under  which  they  were  pro- 
duced, but  were  deeply  imbued  with  its  ob- 
noxious principles  as  those  of  their  respective 
authors.  When  the  restraints  of  authority 
were  taken  off,  therefore,  and  it  became  profit- 
able as  well  as  popular  to  discredit  the  fallen 
party,  it  was  natural  that  the  leading  authors 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


379 


should  affect  a  style  of(  levity  and  derision,  as 
most  opposite  to  that  of  their  opponents,  and 
best  calculated  for  the  purposes  they  had  in 
view.  The  nation,  too,  was  now  for  the  first 
time  essentially  divided  in  point  of  character 
and  principle,  and  a  much  greater  proportion 
were  capable  both  of  writing  in  support  of 
their  own  notions,  and  of  being  influenced  by 
what  was  written.  Add  to  all  this,  that  there 
were  real  and  serious  defects  in  the  style  and 
manner  of  the  former  generation ;  and  that  the 
grace,  and  brevity,  and  vivacity  of  that  gayer 
manner  which  was  now  introduced  from  France 
were  not  only  good  and  captivating  in  them- 
selves, but  had  then  all  the  charms  of  novelty 
and  of  contrast,  and  it  will  not  be  difficult  to 
understand  how  it  came  to  supplant  that  which 
had  been  established  of  old  in  the  country, — 
and  that  so  suddenly  that  the  same  genera- 
tion, among  whom  Milton  had  been  formed 
to  the  severe  sanctity  of  wisdom  and  the 
noble  independence  of  genius,  lavished  its 
loudest  applauses  on  the  obscenity  and  ser- 
vility of  such  writers  as  llochester  and  Wy- 
cherly. 

This  change,  however,  like  all  sudden  chan- 
ges, was  too  fierce  and  violent  to  be  long  main- 
tained at  the  same  pitch;  and  when  the  wits 
and  profligates  of  King  Charles  had  sufficiently 
insulted  the  seriousness  and  virtue  of  their 
predecessors,  there  would  probably  have  been 
a  revulsion  towards  the  accustomed  taste  of  the 
nation,  had  not  the  party  of  the  innovators 
been  reinforced  by  champions  of  more  temper- 
ance and  judgment.  The  result  seemed  at  one 
time  suspended  on  the  will  of  Dryden,  in  whose 
individual  person  the  genius  of  the  English 
and  of  the  French  school  of  literature  may  be 
said  to  have  maintained  a  protracted  struggle. 
But  the  evil  principle  prevailed.  Carried  by 
the  original  bent  of  his  genius  and  his  famili- 
arity with  our  older  models  to  the  cultivation 
of  our  native  style,  to  which  he  might  have 
imparted  more  steadiness  and  correctness — for 
in  force  and  in  sweetness  it  was  already  match- 
less— he  was  unluckily  seduced  by  the  attrac- 
tions of  fashion,  and  the  dazzling  of  the  dear 
wit  and  gay  rhetoric  in  which  it  delighted,  to 
lend  his  powerful  aid  to  the  new  corruptions 
and  refinements,  and  to  prostitute  his  great 
gifts  to  the  purposes  of  party  rage  or  licentious 
ribaldry. 

The  sobriety  of  the  succeeding  reigns  allayed 
this  fever  of  profanity,  but  no  genius  arose 
sufficiently  powerful  to  break  the  spell  that 
still  withheld  us  from  the  use  of  our  own 
peculiar  gifts  and  faculties.  On  the  contrary, 
it  was  the  unfortunate  ambition  of  the  next 


generation  of  authors  to  improve  and  perfect 
the  new  style  rather  than  to  return  to  the  old 
one;  and  it  cannot  be  denied  that  they  did 
improve  it.  They  corrected  its  gross  indecency, 
increased  its  precision  and  correctness,  made 
its  pleasantry  and  sarcasm  more  polished  and 
elegant,  and  spread  through  the  whole  of  iu 
irony,  its  narration,  and  its  reflection,  a  tone 
of  clear  and  condensed  good  sense  which  re- 
commended itself  to  all  who  had  and  all  who 
had  not  any  relish  for  higher  beauties.  This 
is  the  praise  of  Queen  Anne's  wits,  and  to  this 
praise  they  are  justly  entitled.  This  was  left 
for  them  to  do,  and  they  did  it  well.  They 
were  invited  to  it  by  the  circumstances  of  their 
situation,  and  do  not  seem  to  have  been  pos- 
sessed of  any  such  bold  or  vigorous  spirit  as 
either  to  neglect  or  to  outgo  the  invitation. 
Coming  into  life  immediately  after  the  con- 
summation of  a  bloodless  revolution,  effected 
much  more  by  the  cool  sense  than  the  angry 
passions  of  the  nation,  they  seem  to  have  felt 
that  they  were  born  in  an  age  of  reason  rather 
than  of  fancy,  and  that  men's  minds,  though 
considerably  divided  and  unsettled  upon  many 
points,  were  in  a  much  better  temper  to  relish 
judicious  argument  and  cutting  satire  than 
the  glow  of  enthusiastic  passion  or  the  richness 
of  a  luxuriant  imagination.  To  these  accord- 
ingly they  made  no  pretensions;  but,  writing 
with  infinite  good  sense  and  great  grace  and 
vivacity,  and  above  all,  writing  for  the  first 
time  in  a  tone  that  was  peculiar  to  the  upper 
ranks  of  society,  and  upon  subjects  that  were 
almost  exclusively  interesting  to  them,  they 
naturally  figured,  at  least  while  the  manner 
was  new,  as  the  most  accomplished,  fashion- 
able, and  perfect  writers  which  the  world  had 
ever  seen;  and  made  the  wild,  luxuriant,  and 
.humble  sweetness  of  our  earlier  authors  appear 
rude  and  untutored  in  the  comparison.  Men 
grew  ashamed  of  admiring,  and  afraid  of  imi- 
tating, writers  of  so  little  skill  and  smartness; 
and  the  opinion  became  general,  not  only  that 
their  faults  were  intolerable,  but  that  even 
their  beauties  were  puerile  and  barbarous,  and 
unworthy  the  serious  regard  of  a  polite  and 
distinguishing  age. 

These  and  similar  considerations  will  go  far 
to  account  for  the  celebrity  which  those  authors 
acquired  in  their  day;  but  it  is  not  quite  so 
easy  to  explain  how  they  should  have  so  long 
retained  their  ascendant.  One  cause  undoubt- 
edly was  the  real  excellence  of  their  productions 
in  the  style  which  they  had  adopted.  It  was 
hopeless  to  think  of  surpassing  them  in  that 
style;  and  recommended  as  it  was  by  the  fel- 
icity of  their  execution,  it  required  some  cour- 


sso 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


age  to  depart  from  it  and  to  recur  to  another 
which  seemed  to  have  been  so  lately  abandoned 
for  its  sake.  The  age^  which  succeeded,  too, 
was  not  the  age  of  courage  or  adventure. 
There  never  was,  on  the  whole,  a  quieter  time 
than  the  reigns  of  the  two  first  Georges,  and 
the  greater  part  of  that  which  ensued.  There 
were  two  little  provincial  rebellions  indeed, 
and  a  fair  proportion  of  foreign  war,  but  there 
was  nothing  to  stir  the  minds  of  the  people  at 
large — to  rouse  their  passions  or  excite  their 
imaginations:  nothing  like  the  agitations  of 
the  Reformation  in  the  16th  century,  or  of  the 
Civil  wars  in  the  17th.  They  went  on  accord- 
ingly minding  their  old  business  and  reading 
their  old  books  with  great  patience  and  stu- 
pidity. And  certainly  there  never  was  so  re- 
markable a  dearth  of  original  talent — so  long 
an  interruption  of  native  genius — as  during 
about  sixty  years  in  the  middle  of  the  last 
century.  The  dramatic  art  was  dead  fifty 
years  before,  and  poetry  seemed  verging  to  a 
similar  extinction.  The  few  sparks  that  ap- 
peared, however,  showed  that  the  old  fire  was 
burned  out,  and  that  the  altar  must  hereafter 
be  heaped  with  fuel  of  another  qualit}'.  Gray, 
with  the  talents  rather  of  a  critic  than  a  poet 
— with  learning,  fastidiousness,  and  scrupulous 
delicacy  of  taste,  instead  of  fire,  tenderness,  or 
invention — began  and  ended  a  small  school 
which  we  could  scarcely  have  wished  to  become 
permanent,  admirable  in  many  respects  as  some 
of  its  productions  are, — being  far  too  elaborate 
and  artificial  either  for  grace  or  for  fluency, 
and  fitter  to  excite  the  admiration  of  scholars 
than  the  delight  of  ordinary  men.  However, 
they  had  the  merit  of  not  being  in  any  degree 
French,  and  of  restoring  to  our  poetry  the 
dignity  of  seriousness  and  the  tone  at  least  of 
force  and  energy.  The  Whartons,  both  as 
critics  and  as  poets,  were  of  considerable  ser- 
vice in  discrediting  the  high  pretensions  of  the 
former  race,  and  in  bringing  back  to  public 
notice  the  great  stores  and  treasures  of  poetry 
which  lay  hid  in  the  records  of  our  ancient 
literature.  Akcnside  attempted  a  sort  of  clas- 
sical and  philosophical  rapture  which  no  ele- 
gance of  language  could  easily  have  rendered 
popular,  but  which  had  merits  of  no  vulgar 
order  for  those  who  could  study  it.  Goldsmith 
•wrote  with  perfect  elegance  and  beauty,  in  a 
style  of  mellow  tenderness  and  elaborate  sim- 
plicity. He  had  the  harmony  of  Pope  without 
his  quaintness,  and  his  selectness  of  diction 
without  his  coldness  and  eternal  vivacity. 
And  last  of  all  came  Cowper,  with  a  style  of 
complete  originality,  and  for  the  first  time 
luade  it  apparent  to  readers  of  all  descriptions 


that  Pope  and  Addison  were  no  longer  to  be 
the  models  of  English  poetry. 

In  philosophy  and  prose  writing  in  general 
the  case  was  nearly  parallel.  The  name  of 
Hume  is  by  far  the  most  considerable  which 
occurs  in  the  period  to  which  we  have  alluded. 
But  though  his  thinking  was  English,  his  style 
is  entirely  French;  and  being  naturally  of  a 
cold  fancy,  there  is  nothing  of  that  eloquence 
or  richness  about  him  which  characterizes  the 
writings  of  Taylor,  and  Hooker,  and  Bacon: 
and  continues,  with  less  weight  of  matter,  to 
please  in  those  of  Cowley  and  Clarendon. 
War  burton  had  great  powers,  and  wrote  with 
more  force  and  freedom  than  the  wits  to  whom 
he  succeeded;  but  his  faculties  were  perverted 
by  a  paltry  love  of  paradox,  and  rendered 
useless  to  mankind  by  an  unlucky  choice  of 
subjects,  and  the  arrogance  and  dogmatism  of 
his  temper.  Adam  Smith  was  neatly  the  first 
who  made  deeper  reasonings  and  more  exact 
knowledge  popular  among  us;  and  Junius  and 
Johnson  the  first  who  again  familiarized  us 
with  more  glowing  and  .sonorous  diction,  and 
made  us  feel  the  tameness  and  poorness  of  the 
serious  style  of  Addison  and  Swift. 

This  brings  us  down  almost  to  the  present 
times,  in  which  the  revolution  in  our  literature 
has  been  accelerated  and  confirmed  by  the 
concurrence  of  many  causes.  The  agitations 
of  the  French  revolution,  and  the  discussions 
as  well  as  the  hopes  and  terrors  to  which  it 
gave  occasion — the  genius  of  Edmund  Burke 
and  some  others  of  his  country;  the  impression 
of  the  new  literature  of  Germany,  evidently 
the  original  of  our  Lake-school  of  poetry,  and 
of  many  innovations  in  our  drama;  the  rise  or 
revival  of  a  general  spirit  of  Methodism  in  the 
lower  orders;  and  the  vast  extent  of  our  po- 
litical and  commercial  relations,  which  have 
not.  only  familiarized  all  ranks  of  people  with 
distant  countries  and  great  undertakings,  but 
have  brought  knowledge  and  enterprise  home, 
not  merely  to  the  imagination,  but  to  the  actual 
experience  of  almost  every  individual, — all 
these,  and  several  other  circumstances,  have  so 
far  improved  or  excited  the  character  of  our 
nation  as  to  have  created  an  effectual  demand 
for  more  profound  speculation  and  more  serious 
emotion  than  was  dealt  in  by  the  writers  of 
the  former  century,  and  which,  if  it  has  not 
yet  produced  a  corresponding  supply  in  all 
branches,  has  at  least  had  the  effect  of  decry- 
ing the  commodities  that  were  previously  in 
vogue  as  unsuited  to  the  altered  condition  of 
the  times'. 

FRANCIS  JEFFREZ. 


EIGHT  AT  LAST. 


331 


THE  GONDOLA  GLIDES. 

The  gondola  glides, 
Like  a  spirit  of  night, 
O'er  the  slumbering  tides, 
In  the  calm  moonlight. 
The  star  of  the  north 
Shows  her  golden  eye, 
But  a  brighter  looks  forth 
From  yon  lattice  on  high ! 

Her  taper  ia  out, 
And  the  silver  beam 
Floats  the  maiden  about 
Like  a  beautiful  dream ! 
And  the  beat  of  her  heart 
Makes  her  tremble  all  o'er; 
And  she  lists  with  a  start 
To  the  dash  of  the  oar. 

But  the  moments  are  past, 
And  her  fears  are  at  rest, 
And  her  lover  at  last 
Holds  her  clasped  to  his  breast; 
And  the  planet  above, 
And  the  quiet  blue  sea, 
Are  pledged  to  his  love 
And  his  constancy. 

Her  cheek  is  reclined 

On  the  home  of  his  breast; 

And  his  fingers  are  twined 

'Mid  her  ringlets,  which  rest, 

In  many  a  fold, 

O'er  his  arm  that  is  placed 

Round  the  cincture  of  gold 

Which  encircles  the  waist. 

He  looks  to  the  stars 
Which  are  gemming  the  blue, 
And  devoutly  he  swears 
He  will  ever  be  true; 
Then  bends  him  to  hear 
The  low  sound  of  her  sigh, 
And  kiss  the  fond  tear 
From  her  beautiful  eye. 

And  he  watches  its  flashes, 
Which  brightly  reveal 
What  the  long  fringing  lashes 
Would  vainly  conceal; 
And  reads — while  he  kneels 
All  his  ardour  to  speak — 
Her  reply,  as  it  steals 
In  a  blush  o'er  her  cheek ! 

Till  won  by  the  prayers 
Which  so  softly  reprove, 
On  his  bosom,  in  tears. 
She  half-murmura  her  love; 


And  the  stifled  confession 
Enraptured  he  sips, 
'Mid  the  breathings  of  passion, 
In  dew  from  her  lips. 


J.  K.  HERVBT. 


RIGHT  AT  LAST. 

[Mrs.  Elizabeth  C.  (Jaskell,  born  1811,  died  12»h 
November,  1S05.  She  was  the  author  of  Alary  Barton, 
Jlutk,  No,th  and  S  -utlt,  and  other  novels,  chiefly  de- 
scriptive of  the  jieople  in  the  mining  district*  around 
Manchester,  in  which  city  the  greater  part  of  her  life 
was  passed.  She  also  wrote  a  biography  of  lier  friend 
Charlotte  Bronte.  Rigkt  ut  Last  u,ul  olke,-  Tutei  Samp- 
sou  Low,  Son  and  Mansion)  contains  some  of  her  best 
work.  The  first  of  the  stories  narrates  the  trials  of  a 
young  doctor  and  his  wife  who  have  just  commenced 
house-keeping  ill  Loiidon.] 

"Two  hundred  and  thirty-six  pounds,"  he 
said,  putting  the  accounts  away  to  clear  the 
table  for  tea,  as  Crawford  brought  in  the  tilings. 
"Why,  I  don't  call  that  much.  I  believe  I 
reckoned  on  theit  coming  to  a  great  deal  more. 
I'll  go  into  the  city  to-morrow,  and  sell  out  some 
share*,  and  set  your  little  heart  at  ease.  Now 
don't  go  and  put  a  spoonful  less  tea  in  to-night 
to  help  to  pay  these  bills.  Earning  is  better 
than  saving,  and  I  am  earning  at  a  famous 
rate.  Give  me  good  tea,  Maggie,  for  I  have 
done  a  good  day's  work." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  doctor's  consulting- 
room,  for  the  better  economy  of  fire.  To  add 
to  Margaret's  discomfort,  the  chimney  smoked 
this  evening.  She  had  held  her  tongue  from 
any  repining  words;  for  she  remembered  the 
old  proverb  about  a  smoky  chimney  and  a 
scolding  wife;  but  she  was  more  irritated  by 
the  puffs  of  smoke  coming  over  her  pretty  white 
work  than  she  cared  to  show ;  and  it  was  in  a 
sharper  tone  than  usual  that  she  spoke,  in 
bidding  Crawford  take  care  and  have  the  chim- 
ney swept.  The  next  morning  all  had  cleared 
brightly  off.  Her  husband  had  convinced  her 
that  their  money  matters  were  going  on  well; 
the  fire  burned  briskly  at  breakfast-time,  and 
the  unwonted  sun  shone  in  at  the  windows. 
Margaret  was  surprised  when  Crawford  told 
her  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  meet  with  a 
chimney  sweeper  that  morning,  but  that  he 
had  tried  to  arrange  the  coals  in  the  grate  so 
that,  for  this  one  morning  at  least,  his  mistress 
should  not  be  annoyed,  and  by  the  next  he 
would  take  care  to  secure  a  sweep.  Margaret 
thanked  him,  and  acquiesced  in  all  plans  about 
giving  a  general  cleaning  to  the  room,  the 
more  readily  because  she  felt  that  she  had 


RIGHT  AT  LAST. 


spoken  sharply  the  night  before.  She  decided 
to  go  and  pay  all  her  bills  and  make  some 
distant  calls  on  the  next  morning;  and  her 
husband  promised  to  go  into  the  city  and 
pro\  ide  her  with  the  money. 

This  he  did.  He  showed  her  the  notes  that 
evening,  locked  them  up  for  the  night  in  his 
bureau;  and,  lo,  in  the  morning  they  were  gone! 
They  had  breakfasted  in  the  back  parlour,  or 
half-furnished  dining-room.  A  charwoman 
was  in  the  front  room,  cleaning  after  the  sweeps. 
Doctor  Brown  went  to  his  bureau,  singing  an 
old  Scotch  tune  as  he  left  the  dining-room.  It 
was  so  long  before  he  came  back,  that  Margaret 
went  to  look  for  him.  He  was  sitting  in  the 
chair  nearest  to  the  bureau,  leaning  his  head 
upon  it,  in  an  attitude  of  the  deepest  despon- 
dency. He  did  not  seem  to  hear  Margaret's 
step,  as  she  made  her  way  among  rolled-up 
carpets  and  chairs  piled  on  each  other.  She 
had  to  touch  him  on  the  shoulder  before  she 
could  rouse  him. 

"James,  James!"  she  said  in  alarm. 

He  looked  up  at  her  almost  as  if  he  did  not 
know  her. 

"0,  Margaret!"  he  said,  and  took  hold  of 
her  hands,  and  hid  his  face  in  her  neck. 

"Dearest  love,  what  is  it?"  she  asked,  think- 
ing he  was  suddenly  taken  ill. 

"Some  one  has  been  to  my  bureau  since  last 
night,"  he  groaned,  without  either  looking  up 
or  moving. 

"And  taken  the  money,"  said  Margaret,  in 
an  instant  understanding  how  it  stood.  It 
was  a  great  blow;  a  great  loss,  far  greater  than 
the  few  extra  pounds  by  which  the  bills  had 
exceeded  her  calculations;  yet  it  seemed  as  if 
she  could  bear  it  better.  "0,  dear!"  she  said, 
"that  is  bad;  but  after  all — Do  you  know," 
she  said,  trying  to  raise  his  face,  so  that  she 
might  look  into  it,  and  give  him  the  encourage- 
ment of  hor  honest  loving  eyes,  "at  first  I 
thought  you  were  deadly  ill,  and  all  sorts  of 
dreadful  possibilities  rushed  through  my  mind, 
— it  is  such  a  relief  to  find  that  it  is  only 
money — " 

"Only  money!"  he  echoed,  sadly,  avoiding 
her  look,  as  if  he  could  not  bear  to  show  her 
how  much  he  felt  it. 

"And  after  all,"  she  said  with  spirit,  "it 
can't  be  gone  far.  Only  last  night  here.  The 
chimney-sweeps — we  must  send  Crawford  for 
the  police  directly.  You  did  not  take  the 
numbers  of  the  notes!"  ringing  the  bell  as  she 
spoke. 

"No;  they  were  only  to  be  in  our  possession 
one  night,"  he  said. 

"No,  to  be  sure  not." 


The  charwoman  now  appeared  at  the  door 
with  her  pail  of  hot  water.  Margaret  looked 
into  her  face,  as  if  to  read  guilt  or  innocence. 
She  was  a  prote'ge'e  of  Christie's,  who  was  not 
apt  to  accord  her  favour  easily,  or  without  good 
grounds;  an  honest,  decent  widow,  with  a 
large  family  to  maintain  by  her  labour, — that 
was  the  character  in  which  Margaret  had  en- 
gaged her;  and  she  looked  it.  Grimy  in  her 
dress — because  she  could  not  spare  the  money 
or  time  to  be  clean — her  skin  looked  healthy 
and  cared  for;  she  had  a  straightforward,  busi- 
ness-like appearance  about  her,  and  seemed  in 
no  ways  daunted  nor  surprised  to  see  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Brown  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  in  displeased  perplexity  and  distress. 
She  went  about  her  business  without  taking 
any  particular  notice  of  them.  Margaret's 
suspicions  settled  down  yet  more  distinctly 
upon  the  chimney-sweeper;  but  he  could  not 
have  gone  far,  the  notes  could  hardly  have  got 
into  circulation.  Such  a  sum  could  not  have 
been  spent  by  such  a  man  in  so  short  a  time, 
and  the  restoration  of  the  money  was  her  first, 
her  only  object.  She  had  scarcely  a  thought 
for  subsequent  duties,  such  as  prosecution  of 
the  offender,  and  the  like  consequences  of  crime. 
While  her  whole  energies  were  bent  on  the 
speedy  recovery  of  the  money,  and  she  was 
rapidly  going  over  the  necessary  steps  to  be 
taken,  her  husband  "sat  all  poured  out  into 
his  chair,"  as  the  Germans  say;  no  force  in  him 
to  keep  his  limbs  in  any  attitude  requiring  the 
slightest  exertion;  his  face  sunk,  miserable, 
and  with  that  foreshadowing  of  the  lines  of 
age  which  sudden  distress  is  apt  to  call  out  on 
the  youngest  and  smoothest  faces, 

"  What  can  Crawford  be  about?"  said  Mar- 
garet, pulling  the  bell  again  with  vehemence. 
"0,  Crawford!"  as  the  man  at  that  instant 
appeared  at  the  door. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  he  said,  inter- 
rupting her,  as  if  alarmed  into  an  unusual 
discomposure  by  her  violent  ringing.  "  I  had 
just  gone  round  the  corner  with  the  letter 
master  gave  me  last  night  for  the  post,  and 
when  I  came  back  Christie  told  me  you  had 
rung  for  me,  ma'am.  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I 
have  hurried  so,"  and,  indeed,  his  breath  did 
come  quickly,  and  his  face  was  full  of  penitent 
anxiety. 

"0,  Crawford!  I  am  afraid  the  sweep  has 
got  into  your  master's  bureau,  and  taken  all 
the  money  he  put  there  last  night.  It  is  gone 
at  any  rate.  Did  you  ever  leave  him  in  the 
room  alone?" 

"I  can't  say,  ma'am;  perhaps  I  did.  Yea! 
I  believe  I  did.  I  remember  now, — I  had  my 


RIGHT  AT  LAST. 


333 


work  to  do;  and  I  thought  the  charwoman 
was  come,  and  I  went  to  my  pantry;  and  some 
time  after  Christie  came  to  me  complaining 
that  Mrs.  Roberts  was  so  late;  and  then  I 
knew  that  he  must  have  been  alone  in  the 
room.  But,  dear  me,  ma'am,  who  would  have 
thought  there  had  been  so  much  wickedness 
in  him?" 

"How  was  it  that  he  got  into  the  bureau?" 
said  Margaret,  turning  to  her  husband.  ' '  Was 
the  lock  broken?" 

He  roused  himself  up,  like  one  who  wakens 
from  sleep. 

"Yes!  No!  I  suppose  I  had  turned  the  key 
without  locking  it  last  night.  The  bureau  was 
closed,  not  locked,  when  1  went  to  it  this 
morning,  and  the  bolt  was  shot."  He  relapsed 
into  inactive,  thoughtful  silence. 

"At  any  rate,  it  is  no  use  losing  time  in 
wondering  now.  Go,  Crawford,  as  fast  as  you 
can,  for  a  policeman.  You  know  the  name  of 
the  chimney-sweeper,  of  course,"  she  added,  as 
Crawford  was  preparing  to  leave  the  room. 

"Indeed,  ma'am,  I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  just 
agreed  with  the  first  who  was  passing  along  the 
street.  If  I  could  have  known — " 

But  Margaret  had  turned  away  with  an  im- 
patient gesture  of  despair.  Crawford  went 
without  another  word  to  seek  a  policeman. 

In  vain  did  his  wife  try  and  persuade  Doctor 
Brown  to  taste  any  breakfast;  a  cup  of  tea  was 
all  he  would  try  to  swallow,  and  that  was 
taken  in  hasty  gulps,  to  clear  his  dry  throat, 
as  he  heard  Crawford's  voice  talking  to  the 
policeman  whom  he  was  ushering  in. 

The  policeman  heard  all,  and  said  little. 
Then  the  inspector  came.  Doctor  Brown 
seemed  to  leave  all  the  talking  to  Crawford, 
who  apparently  liked  nothing  better.  Margaret 
was  infinitely  distressed  and  dismayed  by  the 
effect  the  robbery  seemed  to  have  on  her  hus- 
band's energies.  The  probable  loss  of  such  a 
sum  was  bad  enough,  but  there  was  something 
so  weak  and  poor  in  character,  in  letting  it 
affect  him  so  strongly — to  deaden  all  energy 
and  destroy  all  hopeful  spring,  that  although 
Margaret  did  not  dare  to  define  her  feeling, 
nor  the  cause  of  it,  to  herself,  she  had  the  fact 
before  her  perpetually,  that  if  she  were  to  judge 
of  her  husband  from  this  morning  only,  she 
must  learn  to  rely  on  herself  alone  in  all  cases 
of  emergency.  The  inspector  repeatedly  turned 
from  Crawford  to  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Brown  for 
answers  to  his  inquiries.  It  was  Margaret 
who  replied  with  terse,  short  sentences,  very 
different  from  Crawford's  long  involved  expla- 
nations. 

At  length  the  inspector  asked  to  ppeak  to 


her  alone.  She  followed  him  into  the  room, 
past  the  affronted  Crawford  and  her  despondent 
husband.  The  inspector  gave  one  sharp  look 
at  the  charwoman,  who  was  going  on  with  her 
scouring  with  stolid  indifference,  turned  her 
out,  and  then  asked  Margaret  where  Crawfom 
came  from, — how  long  he  had  lived  with  them, 
and  various  other  questions,  all  showing  the 
direction  his  suspicions  had  taken.  Thia 
shocked  Margaret  extremely;  but  she  quickly 
answered  every  inquiry;  and,  ut  the  end, 
watched  the  inspector's  face  closely,  and  waited 
for  the  avowal  of  the  suspicion. 

He  led  the  way  back  to  the  other  room 
without  a  word,  however.  Crawford  had  left, 
and  Doctor  Brown  was  trying  to  read  the 
morning's  letters  (which  had  just  been  deliv- 
ered), but  his  hands  shook  so  much  that  he 
could  not  see  a  line. 

"Doctor  Brown,"  said  the  inspector,  "I 
have  little  doubt  that  your  man-servant  has 
committed  this  robbery.  I  judge  so  from  his 
whole  manner;  and  from  his  anxiety  to  tell  the 
story,  and  his  way  of  trying  to  throw  suspicion 
on  the  chimney-sweeper,  neither  whose  name 
nor  dwelling  can  he  give;  at  least  he  says  not. 
Your  wife  tells  us  he  has  already  been  out  of 
the  house  this  morning,  even  before  he  went 
to  summon  a  policeman;  so  there  is  little  doubt 
that  he  has  found  means  for  concealing  or  dis- 
posing of  the  notes;  and  you  say  you  do  not 
know  the  numbers.  However,  that  can  pro- 
bably be  ascertained." 

At  this  moment  Christie  knocked  at  the 
door,  and,  inastateof  greatagitation,  demanded 
to  speak  to  Margaret.  She  brought  up  an 
additional  store  of  suspicious  circumstances, 
none  of  them  much  in  themselves,  but  all 
tending  to  criminate  her  fellow-servant.  She 
had  expected  to  find  herself  blamed  for  starting 
the  idea  of  Crawford's  guilt,  and  was  rather 
surprised  to  find  herself  listened  to  with  atten- 
tion by  the  inspector.  This  led  her  to  tell 
many  other  little  things,  all  bearing  against 
Crawford,  which,  a  dread  of  being  thought 
jealous  and  quarrelsome,  had  led  her  to  conceal 
before  from  her  master  and  mistress.  At  the 
end  of  her  story  the  inspector  said: 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  course  to  be 
taken.  You,  sir,  must  give  your  man-servant 
in  charge.  He  will  be  taken  before  the  sitting 
magistrate  directly;  and  there  is  already  evidence 
enough  to  make  him  be  remanded  for  a  week, 
during  which  time  we  may  trace  the  notes,  and 
complete  the  chain." 

"Must  I  prosecute?"  said  Doctor  Brown, 
almost  lividly  pale.  "It  is,  I  own,  a  serious 
loss  of  money  to  me;  but  there  will  be  the 


334 


RIGHT  AT  LAST. 


further  expenses  of  the  prosecution — the  loss 
of  time — the — " 

He  stopped.  He  saw  his  wife's  indignant 
eyes  fixed  upon  him;  and  shrank  from  their 
look  of  unconscious  reproach. 

"Yes,  inspector,"  he  said,  "I  give  him  in 
charge.  Do  what  you  will.  Do  what  is  right. 
Of  course  I  take  the  consequences.  AVe  take 
the  consequences.  Don't  we,  Margaret?"  He 
spoke  in  a  kind  of  wild  low  voice,  of  which 
Margaret  thought  it  best  to  take  no  notice. 

"Tell  us  exactly  what  to  do," she  said,  very 
coldly  and  quietly,  addressing  herself  to  the 
policeman. 

He  gave  her  the  necessary  directions  as  to 
their  attending  at  the  police-office,  and  bringing 
Christie  as  a  witness,  and  then  went  away  to 
take  measures  for  securing  Crawford. 

Margaret  was  surprised  to  find  how  little 
hurry  or  violence  needed  to  be  used  in  Craw- 
ford's arrest.  She  had  expected  to  hear  sounds 
of  commotion  in  the  house,  if  indeed  Crawford 
himself  had  not  taken  the  alarm  and  escaped. 
But  when  she  had  suggested  the  latter  appre- 
hension to  the  inspector,  he  smiled,  and  told 
her  that  when  he  had  first  heard  of  the  charge 
from  the  policeman  on  the  beat,  he  had  sta- 
tioned a  detective  officer  within  sight  of  the 
house,  to  watch  all  ingress  or  egress;  so  that 
Crawford's  whereabouts  would  soon  have  been 
discovered  if  he  had  attempted  to  escape. 

Margaret's  attention  was  now  directed  to  her 
husband.  He  was  making  hurried  prepara- 
tions for  setting  off  on  his  round  of  visits,  and 
evidently  did  not  wish  to  have  any  conversation 
with  her  on  the  subject  of  the  morning's  event. 
He  promised  to  be  back  by  eleven  o'clock; 
before  which  time,  the  inspector  had  assured 
them,  their  presence  would  not  be  needed. 
Once  or  twice  Doctor  Brown  said,  as  if  to 
himself,  "  It  is  a  miserable  business. "  Indeed, 
Margaret  felt  it  to  be  so;  and  now  that  the 
necessity  for  immediate  speech  and  action  was 
over,  she  began  to  fancy  that  she  must  be  very 
hard-hearted — very  deficient  in  common  feel- 
ing; inasmuch  as  she  had  not  suffered  like  her 
husband  at  the  discovery  that  the  sen-ant — 
whom  they  had  been  learning  to  consider  as  a 
friend,  and  to  look  upon  as  having  their  in- 
terests so  warmly  at  heart — was,  in  all  proba- 
bility, a  treacherous  thief.  She  remembered 
all  his  pretty  marks  of  attention  to  her,  from 
the  day  when  he  had  welcomed  her  arrival  at 
her  new  home  by  his  humble  present  of  flowers, 
until  only  the  day  before,  when,  seeing  her 
fatigued,  he  had,  unasked,  made  her  a  cup  of 
coffee, — coffee  such  as  none  but  he  could  make. 
How  often  had  he  thought  of  warm  dry  clothes 


for  her  husband;  how  wakeful  had  he  been  at 
nights;  how  diligent  in  the  mornings!  It  was 
no  wonder  that  her  husband  felt  this  discovery 
of  domestic  treason  acutely.  It  was  she  who 
was  hard  and  selfish,  and  thinking  more  of  the 
recovery  of  the  money  than  of  the  terrible 
disappointment  in  character,  if  the  charge 
against  Crawford  were  true. 

At  eleven  o'clock  her  husband  returned  with 
a  cab.  Christie  had  thought  the  occasion  of 
appearing  at  a  police-office  worthy  of  her 
Sunday  clothes,  and  was  as  smart  as  her  pos- 
sessions could  make  her.  But  Margaret  and 
her  husband  looked  as  pale  and  sorrow-stricken 
as  if  they  had  been  the  accused,  and  not  the 
accusers. 

Doctor  Brown  shrank  from  meeting  Craw- 
ford's eye,  as  the  one  took  his  place  in  the 
witness-box,  the  other  in  the  dock.  Yet  Craw- 
ford was  trying — Margaret  was  sure  of  this — 
to  catch  his  master's  attention.  Failing  that, 
he  looked  at  Margaret  with  an  expression  she 
could  not  fathom.  Indeed,  the  whole  character 
of  his  face  was  changed.  Instead  of  the  calm 
smooth  look  of  attentive  obedience,  he  had 
assumed  an  insolent,  threatening  expression  of 
defiance;  smiling  occasionally  in  a  most  un- 
pleasant manner,  as  Doctor  Brown  spoke  of 
the  bureau  and  its  contents.  He  was  remanded 
for  a  week ;  but,  the  evidence  as  yet  being  far 
from  conclusive,  bail  for  his  appearance  was 
taken.  This  bail  was  offered  by  his  brother, 
a  respectable  tradesman,  well  known  in  his 
neighbourhood,  and  to  whom  Crawford  had 
sent  on  his  arrest. 

So  Crawford  was  at  large  again,  much  to 
Christie's  djsmay;  who  took  off  her  Sunday 
clothes,  on  her  return  home,  with  a  heavy  heart, 
hoping,  rather  than  trusting,  that  they  should 
not  all  be  murdered  in  their  beds  before  the 
week  was  out.  It  must  be  confessed  Margaret 
herself  was  not  entirely  free  from  fears  of 
Crawford's  vengeance;  his  eyes  had  looked  so 
maliciously  and  vindictively  at  her  and  at  her 
husband,  as  they  gave  their  evidence. 

But  his  absence  in  the  household  gave 
Margaret  enough  to  do  to  prevent  her  dwelling 
on  foolish  fears.  His  being  away  made  a 
terrible  blank  in  their  daily  comfort,  which 
neither  Margaret  nor  Christie — exert  them- 
selves as  they  would — could  fill  up:  and  it  was 
the  rnore  necessary  that  all  should  go  on 
smoothly,  as  Doctor  Brown's  nerves  had  re- 
ceived such  a  shock,  at  the  discovery  of  the 
guilt  of  his  favourite  trusted  servant,  that 
Margaret  was  led  at  times  to  apprehend  a 
serious  illness.  He  would  pace  about  the  room 
at  night,  when  he  thought  she  was  asleep, 


EIGHT   AT   LAST. 


335 


moaning  to  himself — and  in  the  morning  would 
require  the  utmost  persuasion  to  induce  him  to 
go  out  and  see  his  patients.  He  was  worse 
than  ever,  after  consulting  the  lawyer  whom 
he  had  employed  to  conduct  the  prosecution. 
There  was,  as  Margaret  was  brought  unwill- 
ingly to  perceive,  some  mystery  in  the  case; 
for  he  eagerly  took  his  letters  from  the  post, 
going  to  the  door  as  soon  as  he  heard  the 
knock,  and  concealing  their  directions  from 
her.  As  the  week  passed  away,  his  nervous 
misery  still  increased. 

One  evening — the  candles  were  not  lighted 
— he  was  sitting  over  the  fire  in  a  listless  atti- 
tude, resting  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  that 
supported  on  his  knee, — Margaret  determined 
to  try  an  experiment,  to  see  if  she  could  not 
probe,  and  find  out  the  nature  of  the  sore  that 
he  hid  with  such  constant  care.  She  took  a 
stool  and  sat  down  at  his  feet,  taking  his  hand 
in  hers. 

"  Listen,  dearest  James,  to  an  old  story  I 
once  heard.  It  may  interest  you.  There  were 
two  orphans,  boy  and  girl  in  their  hearts, 
though  they  were  a  young  man  and  young 
woman  in  years.  They  were  not  brother  and 
sister,  and  by-and-by  they  fell  in  love;  just  in 
the  same  fond  silly  way  you  and  I  did,  you 
remember.  Well,  the  girl  was  amongst  her 
own  people,  but  the  boy  was  far  away  from  his, 
— if  indeed  he  had  any  alive.  But  the  girl 
loved  him  so  dearly  for  himself,  that  sometimes 
she  thought  she  was  glad  that  he  had  no  one 
to  care  for  him  but  just  her  alone.  Her  friends 
did  not  like  him  as  much  as  she  did;  for,  per- 
haps, they  were  wise,  grave,  cold  people,  and 
she,  I  daresay,  was  very  foolish.  And  they 
did  not  like  her  marrying  the  boy;  which  was 
just  stupidity  in  them,  for  they  had  not  a 
word  to  say  against  him.  But,  about  a  week 
before  the  marriage  day  was  fixed,  they  thought 
they  had  found  out  something — my  darling 
love,  don't  take  away  your  hand — don't  tremble 
so,  only  just  listen!  Her  aunt  came  to  her  and 
said: — 'Child,  you  must  give  up  your  lover: 
his  father  was  tempted,  and  sinned,  and  if  he 
is  now  alive  he  is  a  transported  convict.  The 
marriage  cannot  take  place."  But  the  girl 
stood  up  and  said: — 'If  he  has  known  this 
great  sorrow  and  shame,  he  needs  my  love  all 
the  more.  I  will  not  leave  him,  nor  forsake 
him,  but  love  him  all  the  better.  And  I  charge 
you,  aunt,  as  you  hope  to  receive  a  blessing 
for  doing  as  you  would  be  done  by,  that  you 
tell  no  one!'  I  really  think  that  girl  awed 
her  aunt,  in  some  strange  way,  into  secrecy. 
But,  when  she  was  left  alone,  she  cried  long 
and  sadly,  to  think  what  a  shadow  rested  on 

VOL.  L 


the  heart  she  loved  so  dearly,  and  she  meant 
to  strive  to  lighten  the  life,  and  to  conceal  for 
ever  that  she  had  heard  of  the  burden;  but  now 
she  thinks — 0,  my  husband !  how  you  must 
have  suffered — "  as  he  bent  down  "his  head 
on  her  shoulder  and  cried  terrible  man's  tears. 

"God  be  thanked!"  he  said  at  length. 
"You  know  all,  and  you  do  not  shrink  from 
me.  0,  what  a  miserable,  deceitful  coward  I 
have  been!  Suffered!  Yes — suffered  enough 
to  drive  me  mad;  and  if  I  had  but  been  brave, 
I  might  have  been  spared  all  this  long  twelve 
months  of  agony.  But  it  is  right  I  should 
have  been  punished.  And  you  knew  it  even 
before  we  were  married,  when  you  might  have 
drawn  back." 

"I  could  not:  you  would  not  have  broken 
off  your  engagement  with  me,  would  you, 
under  the  like  circumstances,  if  our  cases  had 
been  reversed?" 

"I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  I  might,  for  I 
am  not  so  brave,  so  good,  so  strong  as  you, 
my  Margaret.  How  could  I  be?  Let  me  tell 
you  more:  We  wandered  about,  my  mother 
and  I,  thankful  that  our  name  was  such  a 
common  one,  but  shrinking  from  every  allusion 
— in  a  way  which  no  one  can  understand  who 
has  not  been  conscious  of  an  inward  sore. 
Living  in  an  assize  town  was  torture:  a  com- 
mercial one  was  nearly  as  bad.  My  father 
was  the  son  of  a  dignified  clergyman,  well 
known  to  his  brethren:  a  cathedral  town  was 
to  be  avoided,  because  there  the  circumstance 
of  the  Dean  of  Saint  Botolph's  son  having  been 
transported,  was  sure  to  be  known.  I  had  to 
be  educated:  therefore  we  had  to  live  in  a  town; 
for  my  mother  could  not  bear  to  part  from  me, 
and  I  was  sent  to  a  day-school.  We  were  very 
poor  for  our  station — no!  we  had  no  station; 
we  were  the  wife  and  child  of  a  convict, — for 
my  poor  mother's  early  habits,  I  should  have 
said.  But  when  I  was  about  fourteen,  my 
father  died  in  his  exile,  leaving,  as  convicts  in 
those  days  sometimes  did,  a  large  fortune.  It 
all  came  to  us.  My  mother  shut  herself  up, 
and  cried  and  prayed  for  a  whole  day.  Then 
she  called  me  in,  and  took  me  into  her  counsel 
We  solemnly  pledged  ourselves  to  give  the 
money  to  some  charity,  as  soon  as  I  was  legally 
of  age.  Till  then  the  interest  was  laid  by, 
every  penny  of  it ;  though  sometimes  we  were 
in  sore  distress  for  money,  my  education  cost 
so  much.  But  how  could  we  tell  in  what  way 
the  money  had  been  accumulated?"  Here 
he  dropped  his  voice.  "Soon  after  I  was  one- 
and-twenty  the  papers  rang  with  admiration 
of  the  unknown  munificent  donor  of  certain 
sums.  I  loathed  their  praises.  I  shrank  from  all 
25 


386 


EIGHT  AT  LAST. 


recollection  of  my  father.  I  remembered  him 
dimly,  but  always  as  angry  and  violent  with  my 
mother.  My  poor,  gentle  mother!  Margaret, 
she  loved  my  father;  and  for  her  sake  I  have 
tried,  since  her  death,  to  feel  kindly  towards 
his  memory.  Soon  after  my  mother's  death  I 
came  to  know  you,  my  jewel,  my  treasure!" 

After  a  while  he  began  again.  "But,  0 
Margaret!  even  now  you  do  not  know  the 
worst.  After  my  mother's  death  I  found  a 
bundle  of  law  papers — of  newspaper  reports 
about  my  father's  trial.  Poor  soul!  why  she 
had  kept  them,  I  cannot  say.  They  were  j 
covered  over  with  notes  in  her  handwriting;  \ 
and,  for  that  reason,  I  kept  them.  It  was  so 
touching  to  read  her  record  of  the  days  spent 
by  her  in  her  solitary  innocence,  while  he  was 
embroiling  himself  deeper  and  deeper  in  crime. 
I  kept  this  bundle  {as  I  thought  so  safely!)  in 
a  secret  drawer  of  my  bureau ;  but  that  wretch 
Crawford  has  got  hold  of  it.  I  missed  the 
papers  that  very  morning.  The  loss  of  them 
was  infinitely  worse  than  the  loss  of  the  money; 
and  now  Crawford  threatens  to  bring  out  the 
one  terrible  fact,  in  open  court,  if  he  can;  and 
his  lawyer  may  do  it,  I  believe.  At  any  rate, 
to  have  it  blazoned  out  to  the  world, — I  who 
have  spent  my  life  in  fearing  this  hour!  But 
most  of  all  for  you,  Margaret!  Still — if  only 
it  could  be  avoided !  Who  will  employ  the  son 
of  Brown,  the  noted  forger?  I  shall  lose  all 
my  practice.  Men  will  look  askance  at  me  as 
I  enter  their  doors.  They  will  drive  me  into 
crime.  I  sometimes  fear  that  crime  is  heredi- 
tary! 0  Margaret!  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"What  can  you  do?"  she  asked. 

"I  can  refuse  to  prosecute." 

"  Let  Crawford  go  free,  you  knowing  him  to 
be  guilty?" 

"  I  know  him  to  be  guilty." 

"Then,  simply,  you  cannot  do  this  thing. 
You  let  loose  a  criminal  upon  the  public." 

' '  But  if  I  do  not,  we  shall  come  to  shame 
and  poverty.  It  is  for  you  I  mind  it,  not  for 
myself.  I  ought  never  to  have  married." 

"Listen  to  me.  I  don't  care  for  poverty; 
and  as  to  shame,  I  should  feel  it  twenty  times 
more  grievously  if  you  and  I  consented  to 
screen  the  guilty,  from  any  fear  or  for  any 
selfish  motives  of  our  own.  I  don't  pretend 
that  I  shall  not  feel  it,  when  first  the  truth  is 
known.  But  my  shame  will  turn  into  pride, 
as  I  watch  you  live  it  down.  You  have  been 
rendered  morbid,  dear  husband,  by  having 
something  all  your  life  to  conceal.  Let  the 
world  know  the  truth,  and  say  the  worst.  You 
will  go  forth  a  free,  honest,  honourable  man, 
able  to  do  your  future  work  without  fear." 


"That  scoundrel  Crawford  has  sent  for  an 
answer  to  his  impudent  note,"  said  Christie, 
putting  in  her  head  at  the  door. 

"Stay!     May  /  write  it?"  said  Margaret. 

She  wrote : — 

Whatever  yon  may  do  or  say  there  is  hut  one  course 
open  to  us.  No  threau  can  Ueter  your  master  from 
doing  his  duty.  MARGARET  BBOWN. 

"There ! "  she  said,  passing  it  to  her  husband ; 
"he  will  see  that  I  know  all,  and  I  suspect  he 
has  reckoned  something  on  your  tenderness  for 
me." 

Margaret's  note  only  enraged,  it  did  not 
dannt  Crawford.  Before  a  week  was  out  every 
one  who  cared  knew  that  Doctor  Brown,  the 
rising  young  physician,  was  son  of  the  notorious 
Brown  the  forger.  All  the  consequences  took 
place  which  he  had  anticipated.  Crawford 
had  to  suffer  a  severe  sentence;  and  Doctor 
Brown  and  his  wife  had  to  leave  their  house 
and  go  to  a  smaller  one;  they  had  to  pinch 
and  to  screw,  aided  in  all  most  zealously  by 
the  faithful  Christie.  But  Doctor  Brown  was 
lighter-hearted  than  he  had  ever  been  before 
in  his  conscious  lifetime.  His  foot  was  now 
firmly  planted  on  the  ground,  and  every  step 
he  rose  was  a  sure  gain.  People  did  say  that 
Margaret  had  been  seen,  in  those  worst  times, 
on  her  hands  and  knees  cleaning  her  own  door- 
step. But  I  don't  believe  it,  for  Christie  would 
never  have  let  her  do  that.  And,  as  far  as  my 
own  evidence  goes,  I  can  only  say  that,  the 
last  time  I  was  in  London,  I  saw  a  brass-plate 
with  Doctor  James  Brown  upon  it,  on  the  door 
of  a  handsome  house  in  a  handsome  square. 
And  as  I  looked,  I  saw  a  brougham  drive  up 
to  the  door,  and. a  lady  get  out,  and  go  into 
that  house,  who  was  certainly  the  Margaret 
Frazer  of  old  days — graver,  more  portly,  more 
stern  I  had  almost  said.  But,  as  I  watched  and 
thought,  I  saw  her  come  to  the  dining-room 
window  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  and  her  whole 
face  melted  into  a  smile  of  infinite  sweetness. 


THE  EXCHANGE. 

"We  pledged  our  hearts,  my  love  and  I,— 
I  in  my  arms  the  maiden  clasping; 

I  could  not  tell  the  reason  why, 
But,  oh !  I  trembled  like  an  aspen. 

Her  father's  love  she  bade  me  gain ; 

I  went,  and  shook  like  any  reed : 
I  strove  to  act  the  man — in  vain ! 

We  had  exchanged  our  hearts  indeed. 

8.  T.  COLERIDGB. 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  HIS  MERRY  MEN.  iS7 

EOBIN   HOOD  AND   HIS   MERRY   MEN  AT   SHERWOOD  FORES'?. 

The  merry  pranks  he  play'd  would  ask  an  age  to  tell, 

And  the  adventures  strange  that  Robin  Hood  befell, 

When  Mansfield  many  a  time  for  Robin  hath  been  laid, 

How  he  hath  cozen'd  them  that  him  would  have  betrayed; 

How  often  he  hath  come  to  Nottingham  disguised, 

And  cunningly  escaped,  being  set  to  be  surprised. 

In  this  our  spacious  isle  I  think  there  is  not  one 

But  he  hath  heard  some  talk  of  him  and  Little  John; 

And  to  the  end  of  time  the  tales  shall  ne'er  be  done, 

Of  Scarlock,  George-a-green,  and  Much  the  miller's  son, 

Of  Tuck  the  merry  friar,  which  many  a  sermon  made 

In  praise  of  Robin  Hood,  his  outlaws,  and  their  trade. 

An  hundred  valiant  men  had  this  brave  Robin  Hood 

Still  ready  at  his  call,  that  bowmen  were  right  good, 

All  clad  in  Lincoln  green,  with  caps  of  red  and  blue, 

His  fellow's  winded  horn,  not  one  of  them  but  knew, 

When  setting  to  their  lips  their  little  bugles  shrill, 

The  warbling  echoes  waked  from  every  dale  and  hill; 

The  bauldricks  set  with  studs  athwart  their  shoulders  cast, 

To  which,  under  their  arms,  their  sheafs  were  buckled  fast; 

A  short  sword  at  their  belt,  a  buckler  scarce  a  span  ; 

Who  struck  below  the  knee  not  counted  then  a  man ; 

All  made  of  Spanish  yew,  the  bows  were  wondrous  strong; 

They  not  an  arrow  drew  but  was  a  cloth-yard  long. 

Of  archery  they  had  the  very  perfect  craft, 

With  broad  arrow  or  but,  or  prick  or  roving  shaft, 

At  marks  full  forty  score  they  used  to  prick  and  rove, 

Yet  higher  than  the  breast  for  comfort  never  strove ; 

Yet  at  the  farthest  mark  a  foot  could  hardly  win  : 

At  long-buts,  short,  and  hoyles,  each  one  could  cleave  the  pin. 

Their  arrows  finely  paired,  for  timber  and  for  feather, 

With  birch  and  brazil  pieced,  to  fly  in  any  weather; 

And  shot  they  with  the  round,  the  square,  or  forked  pile, 

The  loose  gave  such  a  twang  as  might  be  heard  a  mile. 

And  of  these  archers  brave  there  was  not  any  one 

But  he  could  kill  a  deer  his  swiftest  speed  upon, 

Which  they  did  boil  and  roast  in  many  a  mighty  wood, 

Sharp  hunger  the  fine  sauce  to  their  more  kingly  food, 

Then  taking  them  to  rest,  his  merry  men  and  he 

Slept  many  a  summer's  night  under  the  greenwood  tree. 

From  wealthy  abbots'  chests,  and  churls'  abundant  store. 

What  oftentimes  he  took  he  shared  among  the  poor; 

No  lordly  bishop  came  in  lusty  Robin's  way, 

To  him  before  he  went,  but  for  his  pass  must  pay. 

The  widow  in  distress  he  generously  relieved, 

And  remedied  the  wrongs  of  many  a  virgin  grieved: 

He  from  the  husband's  bed  no  married  woman  wan, 

But  to  the  mistress  dear,  his  loved  Marian, 

Was  ever  constant  known,  which,  wheresoe'er  she  came, 

Was  sovereign  of  the  woods,  chief  lady  of  the  game ; 

Her  clothes  tuck'd  to  the  knee,  and  dainty  braided  hnir, 

With  bow  and  quiver  arm'd,  she  wandered  here  and  there 

Amongst  the  forest  wild ;  Diana  never  knew 

Such  pleasures,  nor  such  harts  as  Mariana  slew. 

DRAYTOH. 


•388 


THE  STORY  OF  MAEULLO. 


THE  STORY  OF  MARULLO. 

[Charles  Shirley  Brooks,  born  1815,  died  in  London 
23d  February,  1874.  He  studied  for  the  bar,  but 
adopted  literature  as  his  profession.  He  began  his 
literary  career  as  a  dramatist,  and  produced  a  number 
of  successful  pbiys,  amongst  them  Honour  and  Riclies  ; 
The  Cn-ole ;  The  Lnuther  Arcade,  &c.  He  was  even  more 
successful  as  a  novelist,  and  A+pin  Coui-t,  The  Gordian 
Knot,  The  Silver  Cord,  and  Sooner  or  Later  obtained 
a  large  share  of  public  favour.  In  1854  he  visited 
Russia,  Turkey,  and  Egypt;  and  the  letters  descriptive 
of  his  travels,  which  first  appeared  in  the  London 
Moi-ning  Chronicle,  were  afterwards  collected  and  pub- 
lished in  Longman's  ''Travellers'  Library."  For  jears 
he  was  one  of  the  principal  contributors  to  Punch  ;  and 
on  the  death  of  Mark  Lemon,  he  succeeded  him  as 
editor  of  that  journal.  Mr.  Brooks  wrote  for  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine  a  series  of  Tales  fiom  the  Old 
Dramatists,  and  has  succeeded  in  imbuing  witli  new 
life  several  of  the  works  of  our  early  play-writers.  The 
following  is  one  of  the  tales,  and  in  this,  as  in  all  his 
writings,  will  be  found  humour,  delicacy,  and  vigour.] 

I  purpose,  with  the  aid  of  an  old  friend,  to 
tell  an  old  story.  But  I  have  reasons  for 
thinking  that  it  will  not  be  old  to  all  who  may 
do  me  the  honour  of  reading  it.  If  I  satisfy 
myself  at  the  end  that  I  have  not  quite 
spoiled  my  friend's  tale,  I  will  mention  his 
name;  if  I  do  not,  I  shall  only  say,  "Ah,  but 
you  should  hear  him  tell  it." 

A  great  many  years  ago,  in  a  certain  magni- 
ficent island,  rich  in  all  that  nature  can  do  for 
islands,  and  »:eht;r  in  a  race  of  brave  men  and 
virtuous  women — take  note,  if  you  please,  that 
this  is  not  a  satire,  nor  an  allegory,  but  a 
story — there  was  great  alarm,  confusion,  and 
trouble.  For  which,  this  was  the  reason.  A 
strong  nation,  that  dwelt  at  some  distance 
from  the  island,  but  not  too  far  for  war-ships 
to  cross  a  sea,  and  throw  an  overwhelming  force 
upon  the  coast,  coveted  larger  empire  than  it 
possessed,  and  sent  forth  a  powerful  fleet  against 
the  islanders.  It  is  convenient  to  give  the 
island  a  name,  so  we  will  call  it  Sicily,  and  we 
may  as  well  call  its  ambitious  and  greedy 
enemy  Carthage.  The  beautiful  city  in  which 
most  of  the  incidents  of  our  story  occurred,  we 
will  name  Syracuse. 

The  Syracusans,  I  say,  were  in  a  state  of 
great  alarm.  For  not  only  did  they  know 
that  the  Carthaginian  fleet  was  a  very  strong 
one,  manned  by  skilful  sailors,  and  bringing 
soldiers  of  extraordinary  fierceness  and  admir- 
able discipline,  but  they  knew  that  they  them- 
selves had  much  neglected  the  duty  of  being 
armed  against  an  enemy.  It  was  not  that 
any  Syracusans  were  of  opinion  that  people 


ought  not  to  defend  themselves  when  attacked, 
or  that  a  government  with  false  economical 
principles  had  starved  their  armaments,  for 
they  lived  a  great  many  years  ago,  and  had 
not  arrived  at  that  noint  of  enlightenment. 
But  the  fact  is,  that  the  Syracusans  were  rich 
and  luxurious;  and  though,  as  has  been  told, 
the  island  was  rich  in  brave  men  and  virtuous 
women,  it  abounded  also  with  men  and  women 
who  were  neither  rich  nor  virtuous,  and  these 
had  given  the  tone  to  public  opinion,  such  as 
it  was.  They  had  splendid  houses,  lovely 
gardens,  beautiful  equipages,  and  large  wealth ; 
and  while  they  could  enjoy  these  things,  all 
good  in  their  way,  they  cared  nothing  about 
the  general  welfare.  There  was  a  show  of  an 
army  and  a  navy,  and  the  services  were  favour- 
ites, especially  with  the  ladies.  The  naval 
and  military  reviews  enabled  the  young  officers 
to  display  themselves  in  gorgeous  uniforms, 
and  to  look  like  heroes;  but  the  heroic  spirit 
was  wanting.  When  the  time  came  for  the 
hard  and  cruel  work  of  war,  the  Syracusans 
shrunk  from  it,  and  felt  that  they  had  no 
chance  against  men  wit!i  whom  soldiering 
meant  business,  and  not  an  excuse  for  delight- 
ful and  picturesque  spectacle.  I  need  not  say 
that  everybody,  at  the  crisis,  began  to  lay  the 
blame  of  the  helplessness  on  everybody  but 
himself,  and  rushed  about  declaring  that  the 
people  who  had  brought  the  island  into  such  a 
shameful  condition  ought  to  be  burned;  but 
such  declarations,  though  they  might  be  true, 
did  very  little  good.  The  Carthaginian  fleet 
was  coming,  and  people  told  one  another  of 
the  terrible  cruelty  of  the  nation,  and  how 
captives  were  put  to  death  by  prolonged  tor- 
tures when  Carthage  wanted  a  particularly 
pleasant  holiday. 

Some  little  comfort  they  found  (while  the 
better  among  them  were  showing  a  good  ex- 
ample, hastily  fortifying,  drilling  volunteers, 
and  acting  the  pail  of  brave  men,  who  would 
not  go  down  without  a  fight)  in  saying  that 
the  Carthaginian  admiral  was  but  a  weak 
young  fellow,  named  Gisco,  whose  life  had 
been  passed  in  admiring  himself  and  making 
ladies  admire  him,  and  who  would  be  seized 
with  a  headache  if  he  wore  his  helmet  and 
plume.  That  was  not  much.  But  there  was 
better  comfort  for  them.  The  wiser  men 
among  them  had  met  in  council,  and  had 
resolved  on  sending  to  ask  aid  from  another 
state — let  us  say  Corinth...  The  Corinthians 
had  a  great  general  and  a  fine  army,  and  their 
rulers  were  not  deaf  to  the  argument  that  if 
Carthage  took  Sicily,  Corinth  would  be  in 
danger;  for  in  those  days  statesmen  looked 


THE  STORY  OF  MARULLO. 


389 


ahead  a  little,  and  were  not  content  with 
keeping  matters  smooth  for  their  own  time. 
But  the  Corinthians  imposed  certain  very 
.stringent  conditions.  They  were  not  going 
to  fight  for  an  ally  that  might  ruin  them 
by  imbecility.  If  they  sent  Timoleon,  their 
general,  with  his  army  to  help  Syracuse,  the 
islanders  must  accept  him  as  a  dictator  for 
the  war-time,  and  submit  to  whatever  he  chose 
to  ordain  for  the  good  of  the  cause.  This  the 
vainer  part  did  not  like  at  all,  but  they  were 
overruled  by  the  wiser  part;  and  General 
Timoleon  arrived  to  take  command  in  Syra- 
cuse, and  to  defy  the  Carthaginians. 

So  much  for  public  affairs;  now  for  private 
ones.  The  Praetor  or  Mayor  of  Syracuse  was 
named  Archidamus,  and  he  had  a  son  called 
Timagoras,  and  a  beautiful  and  spirited  daugh- 
ter named  Cleora.  This  young  lady  was  of 
the  kind  to  which  the  best  women  of  all  ages 
belong.  She  could  love  devotedly,  but  her 
love  must  rest  upon  a  noble  object,  and  she 
would  be  her  lover's  friend,  confidante,  and 
helpmate,  not  his  toy  and  slave.  She  was  as 
chaste  as  fair,  and  her  nobility  of  nature  was 
well  known  throughout  Syracuse.  The  show- 
soldiers  and  the  fops  and  idlers  knew  better 
than  to  ask  her  in  marriage,  but  there  were 
two  men,  either  of  whom  she  might  have 
wedded  without  self-sacrifice.  One  of  these, 
at  this  time,  had  been  got  rid  of.  His  name 
was  Pisander,a  gallant  gentleman  from  Thebes, 
who  was  every  way  worthy  of  her.  But  her 
brother  Timagoras  favoured  another  suitor, 
Leosthenes,  who  was  also  a  gallant  soldier, 
but  of  a  jealous  and  suspicious  nature,  though 
not  a  mean  one.  Whether  the  young  lady 
had  cared  for  Pisander  or  not  does  not  matter 
now;  he  had  been  sent  back,  not  over  civilly, 
to  Thebes,  through  the  influence  of  the 
brother  over  the  father.  Leosthenes  now  found 
things  in  his  favour,  for  Cleora  had  all  admi- 
ration for  the  brave  men  who  rallied  for  the 
defence  of  Syracuse,  and  he  meant  to  win  her 
love  by  some  desperate  achievement  against 
the  Carthaginians.  On  the  whole,  therefor?, 
the  brave  Leosthenes  was  the  only  man  who 
was  altogether  pleased  with  the  condition  of 
public  affairs — such  is  the  power  of  love. 

Here  it  must  be  mentioned  that  in  Syracuse 
the  domestic  institution  of  slavery  existed, 
and  the  unfortunate  slaves  were  generally  ill- 
treated.  Of  course  there  were  exceptions  to 
this  rule;  there  were  some  kind  masters  and 
mistresses.  But  for  the  most  part  the  slaves 
were  beaten  on  the  least  provocation,  or  without 
any;  they  were  treated  worse  than  beasts,  for 
they  were  neglected  and  starved,  or  if  not 


starved,  no  consideration  was  paid  to  their 
comforts:  they  were  left  without  food  till  their 
owners  had  wearied  themselves  out  at  their 
banquets,  and  were  obliged  to  lie  about  on  the 
floors  or  the  stairs  until,  perhaps  far  into  the 
night,  their  tyrants  had  done  their  revel,  when 
woe  to  the  slave  who  did  not  spring  at  the 
first  call  to  be  ready  with  the  torch  and  the 
carriage.  They  were  oppressed  more  than  was 
prudent,  to  rest  the  case  no  higher,  for  they 
murmured  and  repined,  and  made  no  secret  of 
their  joy  that  the  Carthaginians  were  coming 
to  reduce  the  haughty  Syracusans  to  the  same 
condition  as  that  of  their  unhappy  slaves. 
Among  them  was  a  tall,  handsome,  and  clever 
man,  named  Marullo,  whom  the  praetor  had 
bought  as  an  attendant  on  Cleora's  carriage, 
or  to  aid  in  carrying  her  litter  when  she  chose 
that  means  of  visiting.  He  did  his  duty  well, 
but  there  was  danger  in  his  eye.  He  was 
never  beaten:  Cleora  would  not  have  permitted 
that,  and  if  she  would,  I  think  that  the 
angriest  master  would  have  thought  twice 
before  rousing  Marullo's  blood. 

The  Corinthian  general  came,  and  all  the 
great  folks  of  Syracuse  assembled  in  the  senate- 
house  to  receive  him.  He  was  already  a  fav- 
ourite with  the  ladies,  by  reason  of  his  renown 
and  by  reason  of  his  being  a  novelty;  and 
while  they  sat  waiting  for  him,  some  of  the 
friskier  matrons  declared  that  they  should  be 
happy  to  kiss  him.  We  may  be  sure  that 
Cleora  joined  in  none  of  this  vulgar  flippancy. 
She  rejoiced  that  Syracuse  was  to  be  defended, 
but  she  felt  with  her  father,  and  other  grave 
men,  that  the  terms  of  Corinth  were  humiliat- 
ing to  the  Syracusans.  Timoleon  came,  and 
after  a  proper  reception  he  addressed  them  in 
a  very  stern  way.  He  declared  that  he  would 
not  take  the  command  unless  they  ratified  the 
agreement  that  he  was  to  be  absolute.  He 
was  so  far  from  kissing  the  ladies  that  the 
frisky  sort  pronounced  him  a  bear,  and  set 
themselves  against  him.  But  the  Syracusan 
authorities  could  only  submit,  and  he  was 
made  absolute  lord.  Then  did  Timoleon  make 
them  a  still  sterner  speech,  pointing  out  how 
while  they  had  spent  worlds  of  gold  in  folly 
and  luxury,  and  to  please  their  wives  (here 
more  scowls  from  the  matrons),  they  had  ne- 
glected their  defences  and  starved  their  sol- 
diers. This  they  could  not  deny.  He  then 
ordered  that  all  money  in  the  posseasion  of 
private  people  should  be  brought  into  the 
public  treasury. 

A  terrible  outcry  arose,  but  the  dictator 
crushed  opposition.  He  pointed  out  that  they 
might  deny  the  money  if  they  liked,  but  that 


390 


THE  STORY  OF  MARULLO. 


the  Carthaginians  would  come  and  would 
triumph,  and  then  he  drew  a  black  picture  of 
the  desolation  that  would  follow,  the  victors 
seizing  the  wealth  that  should  have  been 
employed  against  them,  plundering  and  ran- 
sacking, carrying  off  wives  and  daughters,  and 
selling  sons  for  slaves.  So  effectively  did  he 
depict  the  catastrophe  that  the  beautiful  Cleora 
was  excited  out  of  her  maidenly  silence,  and 
coming  forward  with  blushes,  but  with  spirit, 
she  delivered  some  eloquent  words  in  support 
of  Timoleon,  and  laid  down  her  own  costly 
jewels  at  his  feet  as  a  contribution  to  the 
treasury.  This  tired  them  all,  the  decree  was 
assented  to,  and  every  man  tried  to  show  him- 
self more  earnest  than  the  others  in  suggesting 
means  of  defence.  One  reminded  them  that 
they  could  arm  the  slaves  and  make  them 
fight.  But  Cleora's  spirit  again  broke  out. 
and  she  asked  them  proudly  whether  they 
would  confide  the  patriot's  noblest  duty  to 
such  despicable  hands.  The  idea  was  rejected. 
Marullo,  in  waiting  on  his  young  mistress, 
heard  her  words,  and  bade  some  fellow-slaves 
meet  him  next  night  in  secret.  Then  he 
attended  his  proud  and  beautiful  lady  home. 

Every  man  was  soon  in  arms,  Leosthenes,  I 
need  not  say,  among  the  rest.  He  ventured 
to  seek  Cleora,  and  in  a  passionate  interview 
he  declared  his  love.  She  gave  him  hers  in 
return,  and  promised  to  be  his  when  the  enemy 
should  be  driven  from  Syracuse.  But  even 
then,  at  a  moment  when  the  beautiful  girl's 
frank  heart  might  be  seen  through  her  eyes, 
the  doubting  nature  of  Leosthenes  was  his 
enemy.  He  dared  to  hint  that  in  his  absence 
she  might  forget  him,  and  that  the  addresses 
of  other  suitors  might  be  listened  to.  Yet  her 
loving  heart  conquered  her  pride,  and  she  did 
not  say  that  he  who  could  doubt  her  was  no 
mate  for  her.  What  think  you  she  did?  It 
would  not  have  occurred  to  the  most  devoted 
maiden  of  our  time,  but  what  I  tell  is  true. 
Cleora  commanded  him  to  obey  her  on  pain  of 
losing  her.  He  could  but  obey.  She  gare  a 
last  look  at  the  sun  then  glowing  above  them, 
and  declared  that  she  vrould  see  it  no  more 
until  the  return  of  that  distrustful  man.  Then 
she  bid  him  bind  her  kerchief  over  her  eyes. 
It  was  done,  and  she  begged  him  to  guide  her 
*o  his  lips,  on  which  she  set  the  last  kiss  she 
would  receive  until  he  came  back.  She  did 
more:  she  vowed  that  she  would  not  even 
speak  to  any  one  until  they  should  meet  again. 
These  \vere  the  vows  of  a  time  when  follies 
were  done;  but  if  you  deserve  to  hear  of  such 
a  girl  as  Cleora,  you  will  not  smile  at  her 
devotion. 


The  lords,  and  the  gentlemen,  and  the  sol- 
diers went  bravely  forth  to  the  battle,  and 
Syracuse  was  left  to  the  women  and  the  slaves. 
To  the  slaves!  Marullo  had  not  listened  in 
vain,  nor  met  his  fellows  in  vain.  He  had 
held  his  council,  and  some  he  had  inflamed 
with  speech,  some  with  wine.  He  put  a  new 
spirit  into  the  trampled  men,  and  he  bade 
them  change  places  with  their  masters.  The 
city  was  their  own.  Let  them  seize  treasure, 
houses,  luxuries,  wives,  and  daughters,  and 
revel  in  the  enjoyment  of  liberty.  Only — 
they  must  shed  no  blood. 

The  fire  spread,  the  slaves  flew  exultingly 
to  their  vengeance,  and  in  an  hour  all  was 
changed,  and  the  slaves  were  masters.  Marullo, 
no  longer  a  slave,  demanded  an  interview  with 
Cleora.  The  splendid  bondman  had  dared  to 
love  her. 

Love  her,  but  how?  This  is  not  a  French- 
man's story.  Here  would  come  in  his  lurid 
and  powerful  wickedness,  and  he  will  give  me 
his  artistic  pity  for  throwing  away  the  effect 
he  would  have  made.  But  I  am  in  a  friend's 
hands,  and  he  bids  me  tell  of  no  atrocity. 

Marullo  could  command  an  entrance,  but 
he  entreated  it,  and,  followed  to  the  door  of 
the  house  by  his  furious  adherents,  drew  his 
sword  and  menaced  death  to  any  man  who 
should  dare  come  a  step  further  and  affright 
Cleora.  Then,  sheathing  his  sword  and  baring 
his  head,  he  trod  gently  into  the  lady's  pre- 
sence. He  then  begged  leave  to  tell  his  story 
to  the  blindfolded  girl.  But  he  would  not 
even  venture  to  begin  it  until  she  gave  some 
gracious  sign  that  she  would  be  pleased  to  hear 
him.  His  voice  must  have  been  gracious,  for 
Cleora  held  out  her  hand,  which  he  reverently 
kissed.  Then  he  in  his  turn  declared  his  love 
and  his  knowledge  that  Leosthenes  was  his 
favoured  rival.  He  could  have  slain  Leosthenes, 
he  said,  with  more  ease  than  he  could  tell  of 
his  power;  but  love,  seconded  by  duty,  bade 
him  remember  that  Cleora  loved  the  man.  It 
was  so?  he  asked,  and  Cleora  bowed  her  head 
in  token  of  assent  and  thankfulness.  But 
Leosthenes  was  gone,  he  went  on,  yet  then, 
when  the  baser  passions  of  Marullo  were  chid- 
ing him  for  neglecting  his  opportunity,  and 
reminding  him  that  he  could  now,  without  let 
or  stay,  carry  off  Cleora  and  make  her  his 
own,  he  was  still  master  of  himself.  He  asked 
nothing  but  what  could  be  freely  yielded.  He 
told  once  more  the  story  of  his  ardent  love, 
and  had  nought  else  to  say  save  that  not  only 
hope  was  gone,  but  that  at  the  end  of  the  war 
he  must  expect  torture  and  death.  But  he 
defied  all,  and  would  remain  to  protect  her. 


THE  STORY  OF  MARULLO. 


391 


and  prove  his  devotion  by  delivering  her  over 
in  safety  and  purity  to  his  rival.  Again,  with 
her  permission,  he  pressed  a  kiss  upon  her 
hand,  and  averring  that  such  a  favour  had 
paid  him  for  all  past  and  future  sufferings  he 
left  her. 

Timoleon  had  led  the  Syracusans  to  victory : 
the  Carthaginians  were  slaughtered  in  thou- 
sands; and  the  remnant,  with  their  helpless 
admiral  Gisco,  fled  to  their  ships  and  made 
sail  for  their  savage  city.  Syracuse  was  saved, 
and  the  armies  marched  back  to  it  in  triumph. 
But  there  were  no  signs  of  welcome — no  pro- 
cession of  virgins  with  the  statues  of  the  gods, 
no  laurel  crowns  and  hymns.  The  gates  were 
shut,  and  above  them  and  on  the  walls  were 
the  defiant  slaves,  headed  by  Marullo.  To 
the  furious  demands  of  the  masters  a  mocking 
slave  replied  by  informing  them  of  what  had 
been  done  in  their  absence,  and  his  ribald 
boasts  drove  them  to  fury.  Then,  in  a  nobler 
vein,  Marullo,  at  the  call  of  the  rest,  spoke 
out,  told  the  lords  that  slaves  ought  to  be 
treated  as  in  the  good  old  times  (so  you  see 
that  there  were  good  old  times  to  be  regretted 
even  then),  and  not  with  the  cruelty  and  bru- 
tality which  the  slaves  of  Syracuse  had  endured. 
They  had  been  forced  into  revolt,  and  unless 
redress  were  given  they  would  defend  them- 
selves with  the  strong  hand.  He  demanded 
pardon  for  all  that  had  been  done,  liberty  for 
those  who  chose  to  leave  the  island,  and  for 
those  who  remained  to  serve  competent  main- 
tenance. The  masters,  in  a  whirlwind  of  rage, 
rejected  all  his  proposals  and  rushed  to  the 
assault,  thinking  to  sweep  away  the  defenders 
of  the  gates;  but  Marullo  cheered  his  friends 
to  the  fight,  and  they  fought  bravely ;  and  the 
masters,  baffled,  were  forced  to  retreat,  foaming 
with  new  rage. 

Again  Timoleon  came  to  their  aid,  and  he 
gave  them  counsel.  It  was  based  on  the  vete- 
ran's long  acquaintance  with  human  nature 
brutalized  by  slavery.  They  will  fight,  he 
said,  while  the  arms  of  a  soldier  are  brought 
against  them — their  pride  is  roused,  and  they 
show  themselves  men.  And  they  have  never 
learned  to  fear  the  sword.  Show  them  that 
which  they  have  learned  to  fear :  go  out  against 
them  again,  but  instead  of  swords — brandish 
your  wh>2)8. 

His  counsel  was  taken,  and  it  gave  the  day 
to  the  masters.  The  sight  of  the  weapons  of 
torture  struck  abject  terror  into  the  hearts  of 
the  slaves,  and  they  fled  from  the  presence  of 
their  lords.  The  gates  were  opened,  and  Syra- 
cuse was  again  in  the  hands  of  its  aristocracy. 
Foremost  rushed  in  Leosthenes  to  learn  what 


had  chanced  to  Cleora,  and  dreading  to  hear. 
He  sought  her  house,  and  hardly  dared  to 
question  her  maid ;  but  at  length,  when  he 
was  assured  that  Cleora  had  been  unharmed 
and  was  ready  to  be  led  forth  to  him,  the 
demon  of  suspicion  again  arose  from  the  deepa 
and  whispered.  The  true  and  faithful  girl 
came  forth,  still  wearing  the  bandage  which 
he  had  bound  upon  her  brow.  He  removed 
the  kerchief,  and  received  back  from  her  the 
kiss  which  she  said  she  had  but  borrowed  when 
last  they  met.  Leosthenes  was  happy  for  the 
moment,  and  his  natural  generosity  was  shown 
in  his  instant  demand  for  the  name  of  the  man 
who  had  preserved  her.  He  would  load  him 
with  gold,  if  his  station  permitted  such  reward, 
or  labour  to  win  him  honours,  if  of  higher 
rank. 

Then  Cleora,  all  truth,  told  him  the  whole 
story,  and  that  she  had  been  saved  by  one  who 
hated  him  and  loved  her,  and  she  dwelt  on  all 
his  reverent  tenderness.  "  But  you  withhold 
his  name,"  impatiently  cried  Leosthenes. 

"Marullo,  my  father's  bondman." 

Leosthenes  broke  into  angry  laughter,  which 
yielded  to  fiercer  utterance  as  Cleora,  with 
generous  gratitude  for  her  salvation,  remon- 
strated with  him  for  his  scorn  of  one  who  had 
acted  so  nobly.  Again  she  dwelt  upon  the 
chivalry  of  the  slave  (it  was  in  days  before 
chivalry  was  so  called,  but  the  quality  was 
there),  and  bade  Leosthenes  consider  how 
grandly  Marullo,  with  all  in  his  power,  had 
borne  himself.  And  she  then  asked,  as  of 
right,  that  whatever  vengeance  might  be  re- 
served for  other  rebels,  Marullo,  for  what  he 
had  done  for  her,  was  to  be  unharmed.  To 
the  voice  in  the  jealous  eye  of  Leosthenes  she 
answered  that  she  could  not  be  so  greatly 
injured  as  by  unjust  suspicion,  and  that  she 
loved  the  mind  of  Marullo,  not  his  person. 
And  Leosthenes  remaining  darkly  moody, 
Cleora  left  him.  But  Marullo,  who  had  in- 
stinctively remained  in  his  mistress'  house, 
was  instantly  seized,  and  after  a  fearless  decla- 
ration that  he  loved  Cleora,  and  even  hdd 
deserved  her,  was  loaded  with  chains  and 
dragged  away  to  a  dungeon. 

This  was  unknown  to  Cleora,  who  sought 
her  father,  and  after  telling  him  of  her  fears 
that  the  nature  of  Leosthenes,  noble  as  he  was, 
would  bar  their  happiness,  she  obtained  a 
promise  that  Archidamus  would  do  all  he 
could  to  serve  Marullo.  But  when  the  maiden 
learned  from  her  attendant  that  he  had  been 
hurried  away  to  the  jail,  her  spirit  flashed 
up  once  more,  and  she  followed  him  thither. 
Gold  made  way  for  her:  a  bribe  to  the  jailer, 


292 


SONG   OF  THE  VIRGINS  OF  ISRAEL. 


and  Marullo's  chains  fell ;  and  Cleora  told  him 
her  sense  of  the  wrong  that  was  done  him. 
She  would  do  her  utmost  to  serve  him,  and 
weep  for  that  which  she  could  not  prevent. 
Marullo's  nature  was  not  to  be  subdued  by 
chain  and  cell,  and  again  kneeling  to  her,  he 
besought  her  pardon  for  having  dared  to  love 
her,  and  assured  her  that  he  should  die  in 
happiness  if  certain  of  her  forgiveness.  And 
then  the  power  of  an  earnest  love  in  a  noble 
heart  began  to  tell  upon  Cleora,  fresh  from  a 
svf  ne  in  which  her  long  penance  and  her  faith- 
fulness had  been  forgotten  and  insulted,  and 
she  even  gave  Marullo  some  words  of  hope, — 
and  they  were  overheard  by  Leosthenes  and 
her  brother. 

Timoleon,  for  the  third  time  a  friend  to 
Syracuse,  had  restrained  the  vengeful  masters, 
and  had  reminded  them  that  to  work  upon  the 
slaves  the  cruel  punishments  which  they  medi- 
tated, was  to  destroy  their  own  wealth.  And 
it  turned  out  that  there  had  been  no  outrages 
that  needed  to  be  atoned  for  with  blood.  The 
slaves,  male  and  female,  had  indeed  made 
free  with  their  masters'  property,  and  had 
visited  retributory  justice  on  some  cruel  mis- 
tresses by  making  them  wait  as  servants,  starve 
for  long  hours,  and  linger  till  the  late  revel 
should  be  over, — but  nought  worse  had  been 
done.  But  for  Marullo.  who  had  dared  to  love 
the  child  of  the  pra;tor,  and  to  declare  his 
love — nay,  to  extract  from  her  lips  words  of 
hope  for  a  slave — there  could  be  no  mercy. 
Timoleon  had  forbidden  that  aught  of  violence 
should  be  done  save  under  his  rule,  and  all 
our  personages  met  in  a  chamber  of  justice. 
There  Leosthenes  confronted  Cleora,  and  there 
Marullo  was  brought;  and  in  the  presence  of 
Timoleon  the  jealous  and  now  savage  lover 
broke  out  into  reproaches  to  Cleora  for  the 
favour  she  had  shown  the  slave,  and  he  dared 
to  call  upon  her  to  clear  herself  by  solemn 
declaration  of  having  given  Marullo  her  love. 
At  this,  Cleora  proudly  silent,  Marullo  himself 
flamed  up  like  fire,  and  declared  that,  though 
a  slave  and  in  all  respects  unworthy  of  Cleora, 
lie  was  more  worthy  of  her  than  Leosthenes, 
for  he  would  never  dare  to  suspect  her  of  aught 
that  was  evil.  There  was  a  fierce  cry  among 
the  lords  for  vengeance  on  the  daring  slave, 
but  he,  opposing  them  with  an  equal  fierceness, 
tore  away  some  disguises  that  he  had  worn, 
and  discovered  himself  as 

Pisander  of  Thebes ! 

Do  you  not  guess  all  the  rest?  The  gallant 
lover,  banished  by  intrigue,  had  come  back  as 
a  slave,  to  be  near  his  mistress — had  borne  for 
her  all  the  humiliations  of  slave-life,  and  had 


seized  occasion  to  help  those  to  justice  whow 
sorrows  he  had  thus  discerned.  He  had  watch- 
fully guarded  her  amid  all  the  dangers,  and 
would  have  shown  his  loyalty  by  yielding  her 
to  another  had  that  other  been  worthy.  But 
now,  Cleora  insulted  beyond  pardon,  Pisander 
claimed  the  love  (already  half  given)  and  the 
hand  of  the  beautiful  maiden.  How  Leo- 
sthenes, conscience-struck,  confessed  not  only 
that  he  ought  to  surrender  Cleora,  but  found 
the  best  reason  for  it  in  the  form  of  another 
lady  whom  he  had  wedded  and  abandoned, 
and  how  the  stern  dictator  blessed  the  nuptials 
of  Pisander  and  Cleora,  I  need  not  tell. 

I  have  not  satisfied  myself;  but  yet  I  think 
I  will  name  my  friend.  He  lies  in  a  nameless 
grave  by  St.  Saviour's,  Southwark — ought  it 
to  be  so? — but  in  the  register  is  set  down, 
"  March  20.  1639-40 — buried,  Philip  Mas- 
singer,  a  Stranger. " 


SONG  OF  THE  VIRGINS  OF  ISRAEL. 

[William  Sotheby's  principal  poems  are  Said,  pub- 
lished in  1807  'London),  and  Constance  de  Caxlile.  1810. 
He  translated  Wieland's  Oberon  and  Virgil  s  Georyict. 
He  died  in  1S3S,  and  his  works  are  now  almost  entirely 
forgotten,  although  they  were  numerous  and  attracted 
considerable  attention  during  the  poet's  lifetime.] 

Daughters  of  Israel !  praise  the  Lord  of  Hosts ! 
Break  into  song !  with  harp  and  tabret  lift 
Your  voices  up,  and  weave  with  joy  the  dance ; 
And  to  your  twinkling  footsteps  toss  aloft 
Your  arms ;  and  from  the  flash  of  cymbals  shake 
Sweet  clangour,  measuring  the  giddy  maze. 

Shout  ye !  and  ye,  make  answer !    Saul  hath  slain 
His  thousands ;  David  his  ten  thousands  slain. 

Sing  a  new  song.     I  saw  them  in  their  rage, 
I  saw  the  gleam  of  spears,  the  flash  of  swords, 
That  rang  against  our  gates !    The  warder's  watch 
Ceased  not.     Tower  answer'd  tower:  a  warning  voice 
Was  heard  without ;  the  cry  of  woe  within  I 
The  shriek  of  virgins,  and  the  wail  of  her. 
The  mother,  in  her  anguish,  who  fore  wept, 
Wept  at  the  breast  her  babe,  as  now  no  move. 

Shout  ye !  and  ye,  make  answer !    Saul  hath  slain 
His  thousands ;  David  his  ten  thousands  slain. 

Sing  a  new  song.     Spake  not  th'  insulting  foe? — 
I  will  pursue,  o'ertake,  divide  the  spoil, 
My  hand  shall  dash  their  infants  on  the  stones: 
The  ploughshare  of  my  vengeance  shall  draw  out 
The  furrow,  where  the  tower  and  fortress  rose. 
Before  my  chariot  Israel's  chiefs  shall  clank 
Their  chains.   Each  side,  their  virgin  daughters  groan  ; 
Erewhile  to  weave  my  conquest  on  their  looms. 

Shroit.  ye  !  and  ye,  make  answer !     Saul  hath  slaiu 
His  thous.ij.ls,  David  his  ten  thousands  slain. 


A  GOOD  WORD  FOR  WINTER. 


Thou  heard'st,  O  God  of  battle  I  Thou  whoge  look 
Bnappeth  the  spear  in  sunder.     In  thy  strength 
A  youth,  thy  chosen,  laid  their  champion  low. 
Saul,  S.iul  pursues,  o'ertakes,  divides  the  spoil  ; 
Wreathes  round  our  necks  these  chains  of  gold,  and 

rohes 

Our  limbs  with  floating  crimson.     Then  rejoice, 
Daughters  of  Israel  1  from  your  cymbals  shake 
Sweet  clangour,  hymning  God,  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ! 

Ye  sheut !  and  ye,  make  answer !  Saul  hath  sLiiu 
His  thousands ;  David  his  ten  thousands  slain. 


303 

A  lusty  plain  abundant  of  vitaille. 

Where  many  a  tower  and  town  thou  mayst  behold, 

That  founded  were  in  time  of  fathers  old, 

And  many  an  other  delectable  sight; 

And  Salu&is  this  noble  country  hight  " 


A  GOOD  WORD  FOR  WINTER.  1 

The  love  of  Nature  in  and  for  herself,  or  as 
a  mirror  for  the  moods  of  the  mind,  is  a  mo- 
dern thing.     The  fleeing  to  her  as  an  escape 
from  man  was  brought  into  fashion  by  Rousseau ; 
for  his  prototype  Petrarch,  though  he  had  a 
taste  for  pretty  scenery,   had  a  true  antique 
horror  for  the  grander  aspects  of  nature.     He 
got  once  to  the  top  of  Mount  Ventoux,  but  it 
is  very  plain  that  he  did  not  enjoy  it.    Indeed, 
it   is  only  within  a  century  or  so  that  the 
search  after  the  picturesque  has  been  a  safe 
employment.     It  is  not  so  even  now  in  Greece 
or  Southern  Italy.     Where  the  Anglo-Saxon 
carves  his  cold  fowl,  and  leaves  the  relics  of 
his  picnic,  the  ancient  or  medieval  man  might 
be  pretty  confident  that  some  ruffian  would 
try  the  edge  of  his  knife  on  a  chicken  of  the 
Platonic  sort,  and  leave  more  precious  bones 
as  an  offering  to  the  genius  of  the  place.     The 
ancients  were  certainly  more  social  than  we, 
though  that,   perhaps,   was   natural   enough, 
when  a  good  part  of  the  world  was  still  covered 
with  forest.     They  huddled  together  in  cities 
as  well  for  safety  as  to  keep  their  minds  warm. 
The  Romans  had  a  fondness  for  country  life, 
but  they  had  fine  roads,  and  Rome  was  always 
within  easy  reach.     The  author  of  the  book  of 
Job  is  the  earliest  I  know  of  who  showed  any 
profound  sense  of  the  moral  meaning  of  the 
outward  world;    and   I   think   none  has  ap- 
proached him  since,  though  Wordsworth  comes 
nearest  with  the  first  two  books  of  the  Prelude. 
But  their  feeling  is  not  precisely  of  the  kind 
I  speak  of  as  modern,  and  which  gave  rise  to 
what  is  called  descriptive   poetry.      Chaucer 
opens  his  "Clerk's  Tale"  with  a  bit  of  landscape 
admirable  for  its  large  style,  and  as  well  com- 
posed as  any  Claude. 
"  There  is  right  at  the  west  end  of  Itaille, 
Down  at  the  root  of  Vesulus  the  cold, 


l  From  .V.v  Sta-lii  Wwioirt.  By  J.  Russell  Lnwell, 
/\  \\  1'i-nfMsnnr  of  Belles-Lettres  in  Harvard  College, 
Boston :  Houghton,  Mifflin  <fe  Co. 


What  an  airy  precision  of  touch  there  is  here 
and  what  a  sure  eye  for  the  points  of  character 
in  landscape!  But  the  picture  is  altogether 
subsidiary.  No  douU  the  works  of  Salvator 
Rosa  and  Caspar  Poussin  show  that  there  must 
have  been  some  amateur  taste  for  the  grand 
and  terrible  in  scenery;  but  the  British  poet 
Thomson  ("sweet-souled"  is  Wordsworth's  apt 
word)  was  the  first  to  do  with  words  what  they 
had  done  partially  with  colours.  He  was  turgid, 
no  good  metrist,  and  his  English  is  like  a  trans- 
lation from  one  of  those  poets  who  wrote  in  Latin 
after  it  was  dead;  but  he  was  a  man  of  sincere 
genius,  and  not  only  English,  but  European 
literature  is  largely  in  his  debt.  He  was  the 
inventor  of  cheap  amusement  for  the  million, 
to  be  had  of  All-out-doors  for  the  asking.  It 
was  his  impulse  which  unconsciously  gave 
direction  to  Rousseau,  and  it  is  to  the  school 
of  Jean  Jacques  that  we  owe  St.  Pierre,  Cowper, 
Chateaubriand,  Wordsworth,  Byron,  Lunar- 
tine,  George  Sand,  Ruskin — the  great  painters 
of  ideal  landscape. 

So  long  as  men  had  slender  means,  whether 
of  keeping  out  cold  or  checkmating  it  with 
artificial  heat,  winter  was  an  unwelcome  guest, 
especially  in  the  country.     There  he  was  the 
bearer  of  a  lettre de-cachet,  which  shut  its  vic- 
tims in  solitary  confinement,  with  few  resources 
but  to  boose  round  the  tire  and  repeat  ghost- 
stories,  which  had  lost  all  their  freshness  and 
none  of  their  terror.     To  go  to  bed  was  to  lie 
awake  of  cold,  with  an  added  shudder  of  fright 
whenever  a  loose  casement  or  a  waving  curtain 
chose  to  give   you   the  goose-flesh.      Bossy 
Rabutin,  in  one  of  his  letters,  gives  us  a  notion 
how  uncomfortable  it  was  in  the  country,  with 
green  wood,  smoky  chimneys,  and  doors  and 
windows  that  thought  it  was  their  duty  to 
make  the  wind  whistle,  not  to  keep  it  out. 
With  fuel  so  dear,  it  could  not  have  been  much 
better  in  the  city,  to  judge  by  Menage's  warn- 
ing against  the  danger  of  our  dressing-gowns 
taking  fire  while  we  cuddle  too  closely  over  the 
sparing  blaze.     The  poet  of  Winter  himself  is 
said  to  have  written  in  bed,  with  his  hand 
through  a  hole  in  the  blanket;  and  we  m;iv 
suspect  that  it  was  the  warmth  quite  as  much 
as  the  company  that  first  drew  men  together 
at  the  coffee-house.     Coleridge,    in  January, 
1800,  writes  to  Wedgewood  :  "  I  am  sitting  by 
a  fire  in  a  rug  greatcoat.  ...     It  is  mont 
barbarously  cold,  and  you,  I  fear,  can  shield 


394 


A  GOOD  WORD  TOR  WINTER. 


yourself  from  it  only  by  perpetual  imprison- 
ment." This  thermometrical  view  of  winter 
is,  I  grant,  a  depressing  one:  for  I  think  there 
is  nothing  so  demoralizing  as  cold.  I  know  of 
a  boy  who,  when  his  father,  a  bitter  economist, 
was  brought  home  dead,  said  only,  "  Now  we 
can  burn  as  much  wood  as  we  like."  I  would 
not  offhand  prophesy  the  gallows  for  that  boy. 
I  remember  with  a  shudder  a  pinch  I  got  from 
the  cold  once  in  a  railroad-car.  A  born  fanatic 
of  fresh  air,  I  found  myself  glad  to  see  the 
windows  hermetically  sealed  by  the  freezing 
vapour  of  our  breath,  and  plotted  the  assassin- 
ation of  the  conductor  every  time  he  opened 
the  door.  I  felt  myself  sensibly  barbarizing, 
and  would  have  shared  Colonel  Jack's  bed  in 
the  ash-hole  of  the  glass-furnace  with  a  grateful 
heart.  Since  then  I  have  had  more  charity 
for  the  prevailing  ill  opinion  of  winter.  It  was 
natural  enough  that  Ovid  should  measure  the 
years  of  his  exile  in  Pontus  by  the  number  of 
winters : 

"  Ut  sumus  in  Ponto,  ter  frigore  constitit  later, 
Fact  a  est  Euxini  dura  ter  unda  maris:" 

Thrice  hath  the  cold  bound  Ister  fast,  since  I 
In  Pontus  was,  thrice  Euxine's  wave  made  hard. 

Jubinal  has  printed  an  Anglo-Norman  piece  of 
doggerel  in  which  Winter  and  Summer  dispute 
which  is  the  better  man.  It  is  not  without  a 
kind  of  rough  and  inchoate  humour,  and  I 
like  it  because  old  Whitebeard  gets  tolerably 
fair  play.  The  jolly  old  fellow  boasts  of  his 
rate  of  livrng,  with  that  contempt  of  poverty 
which  is  the  weak  spot  in  the  burly  English 
nature : 

Ja  Dieu  Tie  place  qne  me  avyenge 
Que  ne  face  plus  honour 
Et  plus  despenz  en  un  soul  jour 
Que  vus  en  tote  vostre  vie:" 

Now  God  forbid  it  hap  to  me 
That  I  make  not  more  great  display, 
And  spend  more  in  a  single  day 
Than  you  can  do  in  all  your  life. 

The  best  touch,  perhaps,  is  Winter's  claim  for 
credit  as  a  mender  of  the  highways,  which  was 
not  without  point  when  every  road  in  Europe 
was  a  quagmire  during  a  good  part  of  the  year 
unless  it  was  bottomed  on  some  remains  of 
Koman  engineering: 

"  Je  su,  fet-il,  seignur  et  mestre 
Et  a  bon  droit  le  dey  es're, 
Quant  de  la  bowe  face  cauce1 
Par  un  petit  de  geel£ : " 

Master  and  lord  I  am,  says  he. 
And  of  good  right  so  ought  to  t»e 
Since  I  make  causeys,  safely  crost. 
Of  mud,  with  just  a  piuch  of  frost. 


i  But  there  is  no  recognition  of  Winter  as  the 
!  best  of  out-door  company. 

Even  Emerson,  an  open-air  man,  and  a 
bringer  of  it,  if  ever  any,  confesses, 

"  The  frost-king  ties  my  fumbling  feet, 
Sings  in  my  ear,  my  hands  are  stones, 
Curdles  the  blood  to  the  marble  bones, 
Tugs  at  the  heart-strings,  numbs  the  sense, 
And  hems  in  life  with  narrowing  fence." 

Winter  was  literally  "the  inverted  year,"  as 
Thomson  called  him:  for  such  entertainments 
as  could  be  had  must  be  got  within  doors. 
What  cheerfulness  there  was  in  brumal  verse 
was  that  of  Horace's  dissolve  frigua  ligna  super 
foco  lar<je  reponens,  so  pleasantly  associated 
with  the  cleverest  scene  in  Roderick  Random. 
This  is  the  tone  of  that  poem  of  Walton's 
friend  Cotton,  which  won  the  praise  of  Words- 
worth :  — 

"  Let  us  home, 
Our  mortal  enemy  is  come; 
Winter  and  all  his  blustering  train 
Have  made  a  voyage  o'er  the  main. 

"  Fly,  fly,  the  foe  advances  fast; 
Into  our  fortress  let  us  haste, 
Where  all  the  roarers  of  the  north 
Can  neither  storm  nor  starve  us  forth. 

"  There  underground  a  magazine 
Of  sovereign  juice  is  cellared  in, 
Liquor  that  will  the  siege  maintain 
Should  Phoebus  ne'er  return  again. 

"  Whilst  we  together  jovial  sit 
Careless,  and  crowned  with  mirth  and  wit. 
Where,  though  bleak  winds  confine  us  home, 
Our  fancies  round  the  world  shall  roam." 

Thomson's  view  of  Winter  is  also,  on  the  whole, 
a  hostile  one,  though  he  does  justice  to  his 
grandeur. 

"  Thus  winter  falls, 

A  heavy  gloom  oppressive  o'er  the  world, 
Through  nature  shedding  influence  malign." 

He  finds  his  consolations,  like  Cotton,  in  the 

house,  though  more  refined : — 

"While  without 

The  ceaseless  winds  blow  ice,  be  my  retreat 
Between  the  groaning  forest  and  the  shore 
Beat  by  the  boundless  multitude  of  waves, 
A  rural,  sheltered,  solitary  scene, 
Where  ruddy  fire  and  beaming  tajiers  join 
To  cheer  the  gloom.    There  studious  let  me  sit 
And  hold  high  converse  with  the  mighty  dead." 

Doctor  Akenside,  a  man  to  be  spoken  of  with 
respect,  follows  Thomson.  With  him,  too, 
"Winter  desolates  the  year,"  and 

"  How  piecing  wears  the  wintry  night 
Spent  with  the  old  illustrious  dead  ! 
While  by  the  taper's  trembling  light 
I  seem  those  awful  scenes  to  dread 
Where  chiefs  or  legislators  lio,"  &c. 


A  GOOD  WORD  FOR  WINTER. 


395 


Akensidc  had  evidently  been  reading  Thom- 
son. He  had  the  conceptions  of  a  great  poet 
with  less  faculty  than  many  a  little  one,  and 
is  one  of  t'lose  versifiers  of  whom  it  is  enough 
to  say  that  we  are  always  willing  to  break  him 
off  in  the  middle  with  an  &c.,  well  knowing 
that  what  fallows  is  but  the  coming-round 
again  of  what  went  before,  marching  in  a  circle 
with  the  cheap  numerosity  of  a  stage-army. 
In  truth,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  short  days 
of  that  cloudy  northern  climate  should  have 
added  to  winter  a  gloom  borrowed  of  the  mind. 
We  hardly  know,  till  we  have  experienced  the 
contrast,  how  sensibly  our  winter  is  alleviated 
by  the  longer  daylight  and  the  pellucid  atmo- 
sphere. I  once  spent  a  winter  in  Dresden,  a 
southern  climate  compared  with  England,  and 
really  almost  lost  my  respect  for  the  sun  when 
I  saw  him  groping  among  the  chimney-pots 
opposite  my  windows  as  he  described  his  im- 
poverished arc  in  the  sky.  The  enforced  seclu- 
sion of  the  season  makes  it  the  time  for  serious 
study  and  occupations  that  demand  fixed  in- 
comes of  unbroken  time.  This  is  why  Milton 
said  "that  his  vein  never  happily  flowed  but 
from  the  autumnal  equinox  to  the  vernal," 
though  in  his  twentieth  year  he  had  written, 
ou  the  return  of  spring — 

"  Fallor?  an  et  nobis  redeunt  in  carmina  vires 
Ingeniumque  mihi  munere  veris  adest?" 

Err  I  ?  or  do  the  powers  of  song  return 
To  me,  and  genius  too,  the  gifts  of  Spring? 

Goethe,  so  far  as  I  remember,  was  the  first  to 
notice  the  cheerfulness  of  snow  in  sunshine. 
His  Harz-reise  im  Wlnttr  gives  no  hint  of  it, 
for  that  is  a  diluted  reminiscence  of  Greek 
tragic  choruses  and  the  book  of  Job  in  nearly 
equal  parts.  In  one  of  the  singularly  interest- 
ing and  characteristic  letters  to  Frau  von  Stein, 
however,  written  during  the  journey,  he  says: 
"  It  is  beautiful  indeed;  the  mist  heaps  itself 
together  in  light  snow-clouds,  the  sun  looks 
through,  and  the  snow  over  everything  gives 
back  a  feeling  of  gaiety."  But  I  find  in  Cow- 
per  the  first  recognition  of  a  general  amiability 
in  Winter.  The  gentleness  of  his  temper,  and 
the  wide  charity  of  his  sympathies,  made  it 
natural  for  him  to  find  good  in  everything 
except  the  human  heart.  A  dreadful  creed 
distilled  from  the  darkest  moments  of  dyspeptic 
solitaries  compelled  him  against  his  will  to  see 
in  that  the  one  evil  thing  made  by  a  God  whose 
goodness  is  over  all  his  works.  Cowper's  two 
walks  in  the  morning  and  noon  of  a  winter's 
day  are  delightful,  so  long  as  he  contrives  to 
let  himself  be  happy  in  the  graciousness  of  the 
landscape.  Your  muscles  grow  springy,  and 


your  lungs  dilate  with  the  crisp  air,  as  yon  walk 
along  with  him.  You  laugh  with  him  at  tlio 
grotesque  shadow  of  your  legs  lengthened 
across  the  snow  by  the  just  risen  sun.  I  know 
nothing  that  gives  a  purer  feeling  of  outdoor 
exhilaration  than  the  easy  verses  of  this  escaped 
hypochondriac.  But  Oowper  also  preferred 
his  sheltered  garden-walk  to  those  robuster 
joys,  and  bitterly  acknowledged  the  depressing 
influence  of  the  darkened  year.  In  December, 
1780,  he  writes:  "At  this  season  of  the  year, 
and  in  this  gloomy  uncomfortable  climate,  it 
is  no  easy  matter  for  the  owner  of  a  mind  like 
mine  to  divert  it  from  sad  subjects,  and  to  fix  it 
upon  such  as  may  administer  to  its  amusement. " 
Or  was  it  because  he  was  writing  to  the  dreadful 
Newton?  Perhaps  his  poetry  bears  truer  wit- 
ness to  his  habitual  feeling,  for  it  is  only  there 
that  poets  disenthral  themselves  of  their  reserve 
and  become  fully  possessed  of  their  greatest 
charm, — the  power  of  being  franker  than  other 
men.  In  the  Third  Book  of  The  Task  he 
boldly  affirms  his  preference  of  the  country  to 
the  city  even  in  winter: — 

"  But  are  not  wholesome  airs,  though  unperfumed 
By  roses,  and  clear  suns,  though  scarcely  felt. 
And  groves,  if  inharmonious,  yet  secure 
From  clamour,  and  whose  very  silence  charm*, 
To  be  preferred  to  smoke?    .     .    . 
They  would  be,  were  not  madness  in  the  head 
And  folly  in  the  heart;  were  England  now 
What  England  was,  plain,  hospitable,  kind. 
And  undebauched." 

The  conclusion  shows,  however,  that  he  was 
thinking  mainly  of  fireside  delights,  not  of  the 
blusterous  companionship  of  nature.  This 
appears  even  more  clearly  in  the  fourth  book : 

"  O  Winter,  ruler  of  the  inverted  year:" 

but  I  cannot  help  interrupting  him  to  say  how- 
pleasant  it  always  is  to  track  poets  through  tho 
gardens  of  their  predecessors  and  find  out  their 
likings  by  a  flower  snapped  off  here  and  there 
to  garnish  their  own  nosegays.  Cowper  had 
been  reading  Thomson,  and  "  the  inverted 
year"  pleased  his  fancy  with  its  suggestion  of 
that  starry  wheel  of  the  zodiac  moving  round 
through  its  spaces  infinite.  He  could  not  help 
loving  a  handy  Latinism  (especially  with  elision 
beauty  added),  any  more  than  Gray,  any  more 
than  Wordsworth — on  the  sly.  But  the  mem- 
ber for  Olney  has  the  floor: — 

"  O  Winter,  ruler  of  the  inverted  year, 
Thy  scattered  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  filled . 
Thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheek* 
Fringed  with  a  beard  mails  white  with  other  »m>w* 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapt  in  rlouu*. 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 


396 


A  GOOD  WORD  FOR  WINTER. 


A  gliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels, 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way, 
I  love  tliee  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st, 
And  dre  uled  as  thou  art !     Thou  hold'st  the  sun 
A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east, 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west,  but  kindly  Mil 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 
And  gathering  at  short  notice,  in  one  group, 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
I  crown  tliee  king  of  intimate  delights. 
Fireside  enjoyments,  hoinuborn  happiness, 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  Retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening  know." 

I  call  this  a  good  human  bit  of  writing, 
imaginative,  too — not  so  flushed,  not  so  ... 
highfaluting  (let  me  dare  the  odious  word!)  as 
the  modern  style  since  poets  have  got  hold  of 
a  theory  that  imagination  is  common-sense 
turned  inside  out,  and  not  common-sense  sub- 
limed— -but  wholesome,  masculine,  and  strong 
in  the  simplicity  of  a  mind  wholly  occupied 
with  its  theme.  To  me  Cowper  is  still  the  best 
of  our  descriptive  poets  for  every-day  wear. 
And  what  unobtrusive  skill  he  has!  How  he 
heightens,  for  example,  your  sense  of  winter 
evening  seclusion,  by  the  twanging  horn  of  the 
postman  on  the  bridge !  That  horn  has  rung 
in  my  ears  ever  since  I  first  heard  it,  during 
the  consulate  of  the  second  Adams.  Words- 
worth strikes  a  deeper  note;  but  does  it  not 
sometimes  come  over  one  (just  the  least  in  the 
world)  that  one  would  give  anything  for  a  bit 
of  nature  pure  and  simple,  without  quite  so 
strong  a  flavour  of  W.  W.?  W.  W.  is,  of  course, 
sublime  and  all  that — but!  For  my  part,  I 
will  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  confess  that 
I  can't  look  at  a  mountain  without  fancying 
the  late  laureate's  gigantic  Roman  nose  thrust 
between  me  and  it,  and  thinking  of  Dean 
Swift's  profane  version  of  Romanes  rerum 
dominos  into  Roman  nose!  a  rare  tin!  dom 
your  nose!  But  do  I  judge  verses,  then,  by 
the  impression  made  on  me  by  the  man  who 
wrote  them?  Not  so  fast,  my  good  friend,  but, 
for  good  or  evil,  the  character  and  its  intellec- 
tual product  are  inextricably  interfused. 

If  I  remember  aright,  Wordsworth  himself 
(except  in  his  magnificent  skating-scene  in  the 
Prelude)  has  not  much  to  say  for  winter  out  of 
doors.  I  cannot  recall  any  picture  by  him  of 
a  snow-storm.  The  reason  may  possibly  be 
that  in  the  Lake  country  even  the  winter 
storms  bring  rain  rather  than  snow.  He  was 
thankful  for  the  Christmas  visits  of  Crabb 
Robinson,  because  they  ".helped  him  through 


the  winter."  His  only  hearty  praise  of  winter 
is  when,  as  General  F6vrier,  he  defeats  the 
French : — 

"  Humanity,  delighting  to  behold 
A  fond  reflection  of  her  own  decay, 
Uath  painted  Winter  like  a  traveller  old, 
Prop |  ed  on  a  staff,  and,  through  the  sullen  day, 
In  hooded  mantle,  limping  o'er  the  plain 
As  though  his  weakness  were  disturbed  by  pain: 
Or,  if  a  j  uster  fancy  should  allow 
An  undisputed  symbol  of  command, 
The  chosen  sceptre  is  a  withered  bow 
Infirmly  grasped  within  a  withered  hand. 
These  emblems  suit  the  helpless  and  forlorn; 
But  mighty  Winter  the  device  shall  scoru." 

The  Scottish  poet  Grahame,  in  his  Sabbath, 
says  manfully: — 

"  Now  is  the  time 
To  visit  Nature  in  her  grand  attire;" 

and  he  has  one  little  picture  which  no  other 
poet  has  surpassed :: — 

"  High  ridged  the  whirled  drift  has  almost  reached 
The  powdered  keystone  of  the  churchyard  porch: 
Mute  hangs  the  hooded  bell;  the  tombs  lie  buried." 

Even  in  our  own  climate,  where  the  sun  shows 
his  winter  face  as  long  and  as  brightly  as  in 
Central  Italy,  the  seduction  of  the  chimney- 
corner  is  apt  to  predominate  in  the  mind  over 
the  severer  satisfactions  of  muffled  fields  and 
penitential  woods.  The  very  title  of  Whittier's 
delightful  Snow-Sound  shows  what  he  was 
thinking  of,  though  he  does  not  vapour  a  little 
about  digging  out  paths.  The  verses  of  Emer- 
son, perfect  as  a  Greek  fragment  (despite  the 
archaism  of  a  dissyllabic  fire),  which  he  has 
chosen  for  his  epigraph,  tell  us  too  how  the 

"  Housemates  sit 

Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 

They  are  all  in  a  tale.  It  is  always  the 
tristis  hiems  of  Virgil.  Catch  one  of  them- 
having  a  kind  word  for  old  Barbe  Fleurie, 
unless  he  whines  through  some  cranny,  like  a 
beggar,  to  heighten  their  enjoyment  while  they 
toast  their  slippered  toes.  I  grant  there  is  a 
keen  relish  of  contrast  about  the  bickering 
flame  as  it  gives  an  emphasis  beyond  Gherardo 
della  Notte  to  loved  faces,  or  kindles  the  gloomy 
gold  of  volumes  scarce  less  friendly,  especially 
when  a  tempest  is  blundering  round  the  house. 
Wordsworth  has  a  fine  touch  that  brings  home 
to  us  the  comfortable  contrast  of  without  and 
within,  during  a  storm  at  night,  and  the  pas- 
sage is  highly  characteristic  of  a  poet  whose 
inspiration  always  has  an  undertone  of  bour- 
geois : — 


THE  SOLDIER'S  HOME. 


397 


"  How  touching,  when,  at  midnight,  sweep 
feiiow  muffled  winds,  and  all  id  dark, 
To  hear, — and  sink  again  to  sleep." 

J.  H. ,  one  of  those  choice  poets  who  will  not 
tarnish  their  bright  fancies  by  publication, 
always  insists  on  a  snow-storm  as  essential  to 
the  true  atmosphere  of  whist.  Mrs.  Battles, 
in  her  famous  rule  for  the  game,  implies  win- 
ter, and  would  doubtless  have  added  tempest, 
if  it  could  be  had  for  the  asking.  For  a  good 
solid  read  also,  into  the  small  hours,  there  is 
nothing  like  that  sense  of  safety  against  having 
your  evening  laid  waste,  which  Euroclydon 
brings,  as  he  bellows  down  the  chimney,  making 
your  fire  gasp,  or  rustles  snow-flakes  against 
the  pane  with  a  sound  more  soothing  than 
silence.  Bmerson,  as  he  is  apt  to  do,  not  only 
hit  the  nail  on  the  head,  but  drove  it  home,  in 
that  last  phrase  of  the  "  tumultuous  privacy." 

But  I  would  exchange  this,  and  give  some- 
thing to  boot,  for  the  privilege  of  walking  out 
into  the  vast  blur  of  a  north-north-east  snow- 
storm, and  getting  a  strong  draught  on  the 
furnace  within,  by  drawing  the  first  furrows 
through  its  sandy  drifts.  I  love  those 

"  Noontide  twilights  which  snow  makes 
With  tempest  of  the  blinding  flakes." 

If  the  wind  veer  too  much  toward  the  east,  you 
get  the  heavy  snow  that  gives  a  true  Alpine 
slope  to  the  boughs  of  your  evergreens,  and 
traces  a  skeleton  of  your  elms  in  white;  but 
you  must  have  plenty  of  north  in  your  gale  if 
you  want  those  driving  nettles  of  frost  that 
sting  the  cheeks  to  a  crimson  manlier  than 
that  of  fire.  During  the  great  storm  of  two 
winters  ago,  the  most  robustious  periwig-pated 
fellow  of  late  years,  I  waded  and  floundered  a 
couple  of  miles  through  the  whispering  night, 
and  brought  home  that  feeling  of  expansion 
we  have  after  being  in  good  company.  "  Great 
things  doeth  He  which  we  cannot  comprehend; 
for  He  saith  to  the  snow,  'Be  thou  on  the 
earth.'" 

There  is  admirable  snow  scenery  in  Judd's 
Margaret,  but  some  one  has  confiscated  my 
copy  of  that  admirable  book,  and  perhaps 
Homer's  picture  of  a  snow-storm  ia  the  best 
yet  in  its  large  simplicity: — 

"And  as  in  winter-time,  when  Jove  his'cold  sharp 

javelins  throws 
Amongst  \is  mortals,  and  is  moved  to  white  the  earth 

•with  snows, 
The  winds  asleep,  he  freely  pours  till  highest  promi- 

nents, 
Hill  tops,  low  meadows,  and  the  fields  that  crown  with 

most  rut  ii  rs 
The  toils  of  men,  seaporte«and  shores,  are  hid,  and 

every  place, 


But  floods,  that  fair  snow's  tender  fUkes,  as  their  own 
brood,  embrace." 

Chapman,  after  all,  though  he  makes  very 
free  with  him,  comes  nearer  Homer  than  any- 
body else.  There  is  nothing  in  the  original  of 
that  fair  snow's  tender  flakes,  but  neither  Pope 
nor  Cowper  could  get  out  of  their  heads  the 
psalmist's  tender  phrase,  "  lie  giveth  his  snow 
like  wool,"  for  which  also  Homer  affords  no 
hint.  Pope  talks  of  "  dissolving  fleeces,"  and 
Cowper  of  a  "  fleecy  mantle. "  But  David  ia 
nobly  simple,  while  Pope  is  simply  nonsensical, 
and  Cowper  pretty.  If  they  must  have  pretti- 
ness,  Martial  would  have  supplied  them  with 
it  in  his 

"  Densum  tacitarum  vellus  aquarum," 

which  is  too  pretty,  though  I  fear  it  would 
have  pleased  Dr.  Donne.  Eustathius  of  Thes- 
salonica  calls  snow  05wp  ipiuStt,  woolly  water, 
which  a  poor  old  French  poet,  Godeau,  has 
amplified  into  this: — 

''Lorsque  la  froidure  inhumaine 
De  leur  verd  ornement  de|>otiille  les  fore'ta 
Sous  une  neige  epaisse  il  couvre  les  gut-rets, 
Et  la  neige  a  pour  eux  la  uhaleur  de  la  laine." 

In  this,  as  in  Pope's  version  of  the  passage  in 
Homer,  there  is,  at  least,  a  sort  of  suggestion 
of  snow-storm  in  the  blinding  drift  of  words. 
But,  on  the  whole,  if  one  would  know  what 
snow  is,  I  should  advise  him  not  to  hunt  up 
what  the  poets  have  said  about  it,  but  to  look 
at  the  sweet  miracle  itself. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    HOME. 

My  untried  muse  shall  no  high  tone  assume. 

Nor  strut  in  anus ;- farewell  my  cup  and  plum* 

Brief  be  my  verse,  a  task  within  my  power, 

I  tell  my  feelings  in  one  happy  hour : 

Bnt  what  an  ho  ir  was  that !  when  from  th«  main 

I  reach  d  this  lovely  valley  once  again  I 

A  g'orious  harvest  fill'd  my  eager  sight, 

Half  shock'd,  half-waving  in  a  flood  of  light; 

On  that  poor  cottage  roof  where  I  was  bom 

The  sun  look  d  down  as  in  life's  early  morn. 

I  gazed  around,  but  not  a  soul  api«sar'd, 

I  listen'd  on  the  threshold,  nothing  lieard ; 

I  call'd  my  father  thrice,  but  no  one  came: 

It  was  not  fear  or  grief  that  shook  my  frawo. 

But  an  o'erpowering  sense  of  peace  and  how% 

Of  toils  gone  by,  perhaps  of  joys  to  come. 

The  door  invitingly  stood  open  wide, 

I  shook  my  dust,  and  set  my  staff  aside. 

How  sweet  it  was  to  breathe  that  cooler  ah, 
And  take  possession  of  my  father's  chair  1 


THE  GREAT  STORM  OF  1703. 


Beneath  my  elbow,  on  the  solid  frame, 

Appear'd  the  rough  initials  of  my  name, 

Cut  forty  years  before ! — the  same  old  clock 

Struck  the  same  bell,  and  gave  my  heart  a  shock 

I  never  can  forget.     A  short  breeze  sprung, 

And  while  a  sigh  was  trembling  on  my  tongue, 

Caught  the  old  dangling  almanacs  behind, 

Anil  up  they  flew,  like  banners  in  the  wind; 

Then  gently,  singly,  down,  down,  down,  they  went, 

And  told  of  twenty  years  that  I  had  spent 

Far  from  my  native  land :  — that  instant  came 

A  robin  on  the  threshold  ;  though  so  tame, 

At  first  he  look'd  distrustful,  almost  shy, 

And  cast  on  me  his  coal-black  steadfast  eye, 

And  seem'd  to  say  (past  friendship  to  renew), 

"  Ah  ha  !  old  worn-out  soldier,  is  it  you?" 

Through  the  room  ranged  the  imprisou'd  humble-bee, 

And  bonib'd  and  bounced,  and  struggled  to  be  free. 

Dashing  against  the  panes  with  sullen  roar, 

That  threw  their  diamond  sunlight  on  the  floor; 

That  floor,  clean  sanded,  where  my  fancy  sti-ay'd 

O'er  undulating  waves  the  broom  had  made, 

Reminding  me  of  those  of  hideous  forms 

That  met  us  as  we  pass'd  the  t"«/.«  of  Stoi-mt, 

Where  high  and  loud  they  break,  and  peace  comes  never 

They  roll  and  foam,  and  roll  and  foam  for  ever. 

But  here  was  peace,  that  peace  which  home  can  yield ; 

The  grasshopper,  the  partridge  in  the  field. 

And  ticking  clock,  were  all  at  once  becom* 

The  substitutes  for  clarion,  fife,  and  drum. 

While  thus  I  mused,  still  gazing,  gazing  still 

On  beds  of  moss  that  spread  the  window-sill, 

I  deem'd  no  moss  my  eyes  had  ever  seen 

Had  been  so  lovely,  brilliant,  fresh,  and  green, 

And  guess'd  some  infant  hand  had  placed  it  there, 

And  prized  its  hue,  so  exquisite,  so  rare. 

Feelings  on  feelings  mingling,  doubling  rose, 

My  heart  felt  everything  but  calm  repose; 

I  could  not  reckon  minutes,  hours,  nor  ye.irs, 

But  rose  at  once,  and  bursted  into  tears ; 

Then,  like  a  fool,  confused,  sat  down  again, 

And  thought  upon  the  past  with  shame  and  pain ; 

I  rived  at  war  and  all  its  horrid  cost. 

And  glory's  quagmire,  where  the  brave  are  lost. 

On  carnage,  fire,  and  plunder,  long  I  mused, 

And  cursed  the  murdering  weapons  I  had  used. 

Two  shadows  then  I  saw,  two  voices  heard, 
One  bespoke  age,  and  one  a  child's  appear'd. — 
In  stepp'd  my  father  with  convulsive  start, 
And  in  an  instant  clasp'd  me  to  his  heart. 
Close  by  him  stood  a  little  blue  eyed  maid, 
And,  stooping  to  the  child,  the  old  man  said, 
"  Come  hither,  Nancy,  kiss  me  once  again, 
This  U  your  uncle  Charles,  come  home  from  Spain." 
The  child  approach'd,  and  with  her  fingers  light 
Stroked  my  old  eyes,  almost  deprived  of  sight. 
But  why  thus  spin  my  tale,  thus  tedious  bet 
Happy  old  soldier !  what's  the  world  to  met 

ROBERT  BLOOM  FIELD. 


THE  GREAT  STORM  OF  1703. 

In  Little  Wild  Street  Chapel,  Lincoln' s-Inn 
Fields,  a  sermon  is  annually  preached  on  the 
27th  of  November,  in  commemoration  of  the 
"GREAT  STORM"  in  1703. 

This  fearful  tempest  was  preceded  by  a  strong 
west  wind,  which  set  in  about  the  middle  of 
the  month;  and  every  day,  and  almost  every 
hour,  increased  in  force  until  the  24th,  when 
it  blew  furiously,  occasioned  much  alarm,  and 
some  damage  was  sustained.  On  the  25th,  and 
through  the  night  following,  it  continued  with 
unusual  violence.  On  the  morning  of  Friday, 
the  26th,  it  raged  so  fearfully  that  only  few 
people  had  courage  to  venture  abroad.  Towards 
evening  it  rose  still  higher;  the  night  setting 
in  with  excessive  darkness  added  general  horror 
to  the  scene,  and  prevented  any  from  seeking 
security  abroad  from  their  homes,  had  that 
been  possible.  The  extraordinary  power  of  the 
wind  created  a  noise,  hoarse  and  dreadful,  like 
thunder,  which  carried  terror  to  every  ear,  and 
appalled  every  heart.  There  were  also  appear- 
ances in  the  heavens  that  resembled  lightning. 
"The  air,"  says  a  writer  at  the  time,  "was 
full  of  meteors  and  fiery  vapours;  yet,"  he  adds, 
"I  am  of  opinion  that  there  was  really  no 
lightning,  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the 
term;  for  the  clouds  that  flew  with  such  vio- 
lence through  the  air,  were  not  to  my  observa- 
tion such  as  are  usually  freighted  with  thunder 
and  lightning;  the  hurries  nature  was  then  in 
do  not  consist  with  the  system  of  thunder." 
Some  imagined  the  tempest  was  accompanied 
with  an  earthquake.  "Horror  and  confusion 
seized  upon  all,  whether  on  shore  or  at  sea;  no 
pen  can  describe  it,  no  tongue  can  express  it, 
no  thought  can  conceive  it,  unless  theirs  who 
were  in  the  extremity  of  it;  and  who,  being 
touched  with  a  due  sense  of  the  sparing  mercy 
of  their  Maker,  retain  the  deep  impressions  of 
his  goodness  upon  their  minds  though  the 
danger  be  past.  To  venture  abroad  was  to  rush 
into  instant  death,  and  to  stay  within  afforded 
no  other  prospect  than  that  of  being  buried 
under  the  ruins  of  a  falling  habitation.  Some 
in  their  distraction  did  the  former,  and  met 
death  in  the  streets;  others,  the  latter,  and  in 
their  own  houses  received  their  final  doom." 
One  hundred  and  twenty-three  persons  were 
killed  by  the  falling  of  dwellings;  amongst 
these  were  the  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells  (Dr. 
Richard  Kidder)  and  his  lady,  by  the  fall  of 
part  of  the  episcopal  palace  of  Wells;  and  Lady 
Penelope  Nicholas,  sister  to  the  Bishop  of 


THE  GREAT  STORM  OF  1703. 


393 


London,  at  Horsley,  in  Sussex.  Those  who 
perished  in  the  waters,  in  the  floods  of  the 
Severn  and  the  Thames,  on  the  coast  of  Holland, 
and  in  ships  blown  away  and  never  heard  of 
afterwards,  are  computed  to  have  amounted  to 
eight  thousand. 

All  ranks  and  degrees  were  affected  by  this 
amazing  tempest,  for  every  familv  Vuat  had 
anything  to  lose  lost  something:  land,  houses, 
churches,  corn,  trees,  rivers,  all  were  disturbed 
or  damaged  by  its  fury;  small  buildings  were 
for  the  most  part  wholly  swept  away,  "  as  chaff 
before  the  wind."  Above  eight  hundred  dwell- 
ing-houses were  laid  in  ruins.  Few  of  those 
that  resisted  escaped  from  being  unroofed,  which 
is  clear  from  the  prodigious  increase  in  the  price 
of  tiles,  which  rose  from  twenty-one  shillings 
to  six  pounds  the  thousand.  About  two  thou- 
sand stacks  of  chimneys  were  blown  down  in 
and  about  London.  When  the  day  broke,  the 
houses  were  mostly  stripped,  and  appeared  like 
so  many  skeletons.  The  consternation  was  so 
great  that  trade  and  business  were  suspended, 
for  the  first  occupation  of  the  mind  was  so  to 
repair  the  houses  that  families  might  be  pre- 
served from  the  inclemency  of  the  weather  in 
the  rigorous  season.  The  streets  were  covered 
with  brickbats,  broken  tiles,  signs,  bulks,  and 
pent-houses. 

The  lead  which  covered  one  hundred  churches, 
and  many  public  buildings,  was  rolled  up,  and 
hurled  in  prodigious  quantities  to  distances 
almost  incredible;  spires  and  turrets  of  many 
others  were  thrown  down.  Innumerable  stacks 
of  corn  and  hay  were  blown  away,  or  so  torn 
and  scattered  as  to  receive  great  damage. 

Multitudes  of  cattle  were  lost.  In  one  level 
in  Gloucestershire,  on  the  banks  of  the  Severn, 
fifteen  thousand  sheep  were  drowned.  In- 
numerable trees  were  torn  up  by  the  roots; 
one  writer  says,  that  he  himself  numbered 
seventeen  thousand  in  part  of  the  county  of 
Kent  alone,  and  that,  tired  with  counting,  he 
left  offreckoning. 

The  damage  in  the  city  of  London  only 
was  computed  at  near  two  millions  sterling. 
At  Bristol  it  was  about  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds.  In  the  whole,  it  was  supposed  that 
the  loss  \vas  greater  than  that  produced  by  the 
great  fire  of  London,  1666,  which  was  estimated 
at  four  millions. 

The  greater  part  of  the  navy  was  at  sea,  and 
if  the  storm  had  not  been  at  its  height  at  full 
flood,  and  in  a  spring-tide,  the  loss  might  have 
been  nearly  fatal  to  the  nation.  It  was  so 
considerable,  that  fifteen  or  sixteen  men-of-war 
were  cast  away,  and  more  than  two  thousand 
seamen  perished.  Few  merchantmen  were 


lost;  for  most  of  those  that  were  driren  to  sea 
were  safe.  Rear-admiral  Beaumont,  with  a 
squadron  then  lying  in  the  Downs,  perished 
with  his  own  and  several  other  ships  on  the 
Goodwin  Sands. 

The  ships  lost  by  the  storm  were  estimated 
at  three  hundred.  In  the  river  Thames  only 
four  ships  remained  between  London  Bridge 
and  Limehouse,  the  rest  being  driven  below, 
and  lying  there  miserably  beating  against  one 
another.  Five  hundred  wherries,  three  hun- 
dred ship-boats,  and  one  hundred  lighters  and 
barges  were  entirely  lost;  and  a  much  greater 
number  received  considerable  damage.  The 
wind  blew  from  the  western  seas,  which  pre- 
venting many  ships  from  putting  to  sea,  and 
driving  others  into  harbour,  occasioned  great 
numbers  to  escape  destruction. 

The  Eddystone  Lighthouse  near  Plymouth 
was  precipitated  in  the  surrounding  ocean,  and 
with  it  Mr.  Winstanley,  the  ingenious  architect 
by  whom  it  was  contrived,  and  the  people  who 
were  with  him. — "Having  been  frequently 
told  that  the  edifice  was  too  slight  to  withstand 
the  fury  of  the  winds  and  waves,  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  reply  contemptuously,  that  he  only 
wished  to  be  in  it  when  a  storm  should  happen. 
Unfortunately  his  desire  was  gratified.  Signals 
of  distress  were  made,  but  in  so  tremendous  a 
sea  no  vessel  could  live,  or  would  venture  to  put 
off  for  their  relief. " x 

The  amazing  strength  and  rapidity  of  the 
wind  are  evidenced  by  the  following  well- 
authenticated  circumstances.  Near  Shaftes- 
bury  a  stone  of  near  four  hundred  pounds 
weight,  which  had  lain  for  some  years  fixed  in 
the  ground,  fenced  by  a  bank  with  a  low  stone 
wall  upon  it,  was  lifted  up  by  the  wind,  and 
carried  into  a  hollow  way,  distant  at  least 
seven  yards  from  the  place.  This  is  mentioned 
in  a  sermon  preached  by  Dr.  Samuel  Stennett 
in  1788.  Dr.  Andrew  Gifford,  in  a  sermon 
preached  at  Little  Wild  Street,  on  the  27th 
of  November,  1734,  says  that  "in  a  country 
town  a  large  stable  was  at  once  removed  off 
its  foundation  and  instantly  carried  quite 
across  the  highway,  over  the  heads  of  five 
horses  and  the  man  that  was  then  feeding 
them,  without  hurting  any  one  of  them,  or 
removing  the  rack  and  manger,  both  of  which 
remained  for  a  considerable  time,  to  the  admir- 
ation of  every  beholder."  Dr.  Gifford,  in  the 
same  sermon,  gives  an  account  of  "several 
remarkable  deliverances."  One  of  the  most 
remarkable  instances  of  this  kind  occurred  at 
a  house  in  the  Strand,  in  which  were  no  less 
than  fourteen  persons:  "Four  of  them  fell  with 
i  Belgium' B  H'ttoiy  of  Qnat  £.\tain. 


400 


THE  GREAT  STORM  OF  1T03. 


a  great  part  of  the  house,  &c.,  three  stories, 
and  several  two:  and  though  buried  in  the 
ruins,  were  taken  out  unhurt:  of  these,  three 
were  children;  one  that  lay  by  itself,  in  a  little 
bed  near  its  nurse;  another  in  a  cradle;  and 
the  third  was  found  hanging  (as  it  were  wrapped 
up)  in  some  curtains  that  hitched  by  the  way; 
neither  of  whom  received  the  least  damage. 
1  n  another  place,  as  a  minister  was  crossing  a 
court  near  his  house,  a  stone  from  the  top  of 
a  chimney  upwards  of  one  hundred  and  forty 
pounds  weight  fell  close  to  his  heels,  and  cut 
between  his  footsteps  four  inches  deep  into  the 
ground.  Soon  after,  upon  drawing  in  his  arm, 
which  he  had  held  out  on  some  occasion, 
another  stone  of  near  the  same  weight  and 
size  brushed  by  his  elbow,  and  fell  close  to  his 
foot,  which  must  necessarily,  in  the  eye  of 
reason,  have  killed  him,  had  it  fallen  while  it 
was  extended."  In  the  Poultry,  where  two 
boys  were  lying  in  a  garret,  a  huge  stack  of 
chimneys  fell  in,  which  making  its  way  through 
that  and  all  the  other  floors  to  the  cellar,  it 
was  followed  by  the  bed  with  the  boys  asleep 
in  it,  who  first  awaked  in  that  gloomy  place  of 
confusion  without  the  least  hurt. 

So  awful  a  visitation  produced  serious  im- 
pressions on  the  government,  and  a  day  of 
fasting  and  humiliation  was  appointed  by 
authority.  The  introductory  part  of  the  pro- 
clamation, issued  by  Queen  Anne  for  that 
purpose,  claims  attention  from  its  solemn 
import : — 

"  WHEREAS,  by  the  late  most  terrible  and 
dreadful  storms  of  wind,  with  which  it  hath 
pleased  Almighty  God  to  afflict  the  greatest 
part  of  this  our  kingdom,  on  Friday  and 
Saturday,  the  twenty-sixth  and  twenty -seventh 
days  of  November  last,  some  of  our  ships  of 
war,  and  many  ships  of  our  loving  subjects 
have  been  destroyed  and  lost  at  sea,  and  great 


numbers  of  our  subjects,  serving  on  board  th« 
same,  have  perished,  and  many  houses  and 
other  buildings  of  our  good  subjects  have  been 
either  wholly  thrown  down  and  demolished,  or 
very  much  damnified  and  defaced,  and  thereby 
several  persons  have  been  killed,  and  many 
stacks  of  corn  and  hay  thrown  down  and  scat- 
tered abroad,  to  the  great  damage  and  impo- 
verishment of  many  others,  especially  the 
poorer  sort,  and  great  numbers  of  timber  and 
other  trees  have  by  the  said  storm  been  torn 
up  by  the  roots  in  many  parts  of  this  our 
kingdom :  a  calamity  of  this  sort  so  dreadful 
and  astonishing,  that  the  like  hath  not  been 
seen  or  felt  in  the  memory  of  any  person  living 
in  this  our  kingdom,  and  which  loudly  calls 
for  the  deepest  and  most  solemn  humiliation 
of  us  and  our  people:  therefore  out  of  a  deep 
and  pious  sense  of  what  we  and  all  our  people 
have  suffered  by  the  said  dreadful  wind  and 
storms  (which  we  most  humbly  acknowledge 
to  be  a  token  of  the  divine  displeasure,  and 
that  it  was  the  infinite  mercy  of  God  that  we 
and  our  people  were  not  thereby  wholly  de- 
stroyed), we  have  resolved,  and  do  hereby 
command,  that  a  General  Public  Fast  be  ob- 
served," &c. 

This  public  fast  was  accordingly  observed 
throughout  England  on  the  nineteenth  of 
January  following,  with  great  seriousness  and 
devotion  by  all  orders  and  denominations. 
The  Protestant  Dissenters,  notwithstanding 
their  objections  to  the  interference  of  the  civil 
magistrate  in  matters  of  religion,  deeming  this 
to  be  an  occasion  wherein  they  might  unite 
with  their  countrymen  in  openly  bewailing  the 
general  calamity,  rendered  the  supplication 
universal,  by  opening  their  places  of  worship, 
and  every  church  and  meeting-house  waa 
crowded. 

HONE'S  EwyJay  Book. 


END  O*'   VOLUME  FIRST. 


